


Guinevere and the King

by sneetchstar



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-23 17:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Medieval AU loosely based on "The King and I".





	1. Chapter 1

Lady Guinevere du Lac pauses outside the doors of the throne room. She doesn't know why Queen Annis has summoned her, but she has an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach she can't shake.

She knows there are any number of reasons why the Queen of Caerleon would command her presence, but there is only one that keeps swirling in Guinevere's mind.

_What if she wishes me to marry?_

Guinevere has been a widow for just over a year, having lost her husband, Sir Lancelot du Lac of Caerleon, in a battle with Odin's kingdom. If Camelot hadn't come to Caerleon's aid, she would have lost her brother as well. They would have been slaughtered.

Still, she was left without a husband and did not even have a child by him to help keep the memory of his noble face and kind brown eyes alive in her heart.

She is young. She's had offers (one came almost immediately after Lancelot's body was laid to rest), but has refused, choosing to live as a childless widow with her brother in the Leodegrance family home. So it is not outside of the realm of possibility that the queen would summon her with the intent of marrying her to a lesser lord to gain his fealty.

 _Best not keep her waiting._ She nods to the guard and he pushes the doors open. She sees no one inside except for the queen and her brother, Sir Elyan of the Knights of Caerleon.

She squares her shoulders, preparing herself for the inevitable.

“Ah, Lady Guinevere, thank you for coming,” Queen Annis greets as soon as she sees her.

Guinevere curtseys, waiting.

“Please come forward,” the queen invites.

Guinevere slowly walks towards the queen, eyes briefly flickering towards the empty throne beside her. Annis is also a widow; her husband died in the same battle as Lancelot. This commonality has forged an interesting relationship between the two women. Guinevere wouldn't call them “friends”, but she does feel a kinship with the older woman, like they are both members of the same group, and Annis has never been anything but kind towards Guinevere and Elyan.

“You look a trifle gray, Guinevere, are you well?” Annis asks.

“I am, my lady,” she answers. _Just nervous._

Annis nods, then chuckles as though she has just realized something. “I'm not going to marry you off to some old lord, Gwen,” she says with a smile.

Guinevere's eyes widen, both at the queen's familiarity and her intuition. “Oh… I didn't…”

“Yes, I believe you did,” Annis counters, still smiling. Then her smile drops. “However, you may wish that was my command,” she says, suddenly serious.

“My lady?”

“I would like you to go to Camelot,” the queen simply states.

“Camelot?” Guinevere asks, confused, but appreciating Annis' notorious directness.

“King Arthur has asked my assistance in providing a tutor for his children,” Annis explains. “I can think of no better candidate than you, Guinevere.”

“Me, my lady? Why me?”

“You are a well-respected, highly educated lady from a noble family,” the queen explains. “You are unmarried but not a naive young courtier who is prone to flights of fancy.” She leans slightly forward and pointedly adds, “And I do believe you could do with a change of scenery.”

Guinevere looks down, noting how the queen's eyes had traveled over her gown. Widow's mourning black. Long sleeved, high-necked, hair covered. Six months is the customary length of time for a widow to dress as such, but Guinevere has been doing so longer than twice that.

“Yes, my lady,” she quietly answers. “Thank you.”

“Gwen,” Annis says, “I am not ordering you to go.” Guinevere lifts her gaze. “I am strongly recommending you do so, but I will not force you.”

“Oh,” Guinevere replies.

“You have the day to decide. I need to send word back to Camelot, so please give me your decision by sundown,” the queen declares with a nod.

“Thank you, my lady.” Guinevere curtseys again, then glances at her brother.

“Sir Elyan, please escort your sister wherever she desires to go,” Annis says. She knows Guinevere will want to discuss this with him, and hopes he will steer her in the right direction.

“Yes, my lady,” Elyan replies, stepping forward and offering his arm to his younger sister.

xXx

“You think I should go,” Guinevere says while he's still thinking about how to broach the topic. They are outside the castle and able to speak freely.

“Yes,” he answers. “I do. I think it will be good for you.”

“I don't know,” she says with a light sigh.

“Gwen,” Elyan says, pausing to look at her. “I don't _want_ you to go. I like having you here. You're my only sister, and the only family I have left.”

“But?” she prompts, tugging his arm so they start walking again.

“ _But_ , you aren't happy here. You're… what's the word? Idle. Stuck.”

“Stuck?” she asks as they walk to the doors of their family home.

“Stuck,” he confirms, opening the door for her. He nods at a servant when they enter. “You're paddling in the stream to keep your head above water, but not moving.” They sit. Another servant brings a pitcher and fills goblets of wine for them.

“I am content,” Guinevere protests, but even she doesn't believe it.

“Pssh,” Elyan blows, rolling his eyes a little. It draws a sheepish smile from his sister and he reaches out to pluck her sleeve. “Gwen, it's time to put the black clothing away,” he gently says. “You are still young, smart, and beautiful; do not let yourself die just because your husband did. I know you loved him. He was the best man I ever knew, you know that. But you need to… stop existing and start _living_. I don't want you to go, but I have to say that maybe getting out of Caerleon will help. Get a fresh start in a new place.”

She reaches for her goblet, but doesn't take it, instead running her finger around the edge. “It's a very big change,” she softly says.

“I know. I know it's scary,” he replies.

“Camelot is not as civilized as Caerleon,” she continues.

“That is probably why the king wanted someone from the outside to teach the princes. I can't imagine anyone there having any knowledge outside of combat techniques,” he says. Then, realizing how that sounds, he quickly adds, “But I'm sure there is more to the kingdom than that. We shouldn't make judgments about places we have never seen.”

She laughs a little. “They say the king is little more than a warlord.”

“He is a great warrior, I do know that. I've seen him in battle.” His eyes get a far-off look in them as he remembers. “He's… amazing. No one could best him. He was bruised and bloodied and still he sent Odin's best warrior scurrying with his tail between his legs.” Elyan's eyes snap back into focus and he adds. “Can't say anything about his skill at running a kingdom, I'm afraid. But a man who is that good on the battlefield cannot be a fool.”

“Is he a… a very large man?” Guinevere asks, picturing a huge, brutish hulk, possibly bigger than Sir Percival but thrice as ugly.

“Hmm? No,” Elyan replies. “I never really saw him up close, but he appeared to be quite… normal. Taller than me, but then most men are,” he pauses, chuckling. The House of Leodegrance has many positive qualities, but height is not one of them. Loyalty, wisdom, and true nobility are the earmarks of their line, and they proudly uphold those values. “Though not as tall or as broad as Percival. I've never seen reflexes like his, nor his ability to read an opponent.”

“It is truly a wonder,” she says, her mouth curving in a wry smile that her brother doesn't yet see.

“Yes, as I said, a man like that will be no foo—”

“No, it is truly a wonder you survived the battle,” she continues. “Since it seems you were spending all your time watching the great King Arthur instead of fighting.”

He catches the glimmer in her eyes now, and starts laughing. “He was difficult to miss,” he explains, grinning bashfully. He takes a drink of his wine, then asks, “So?”

Guinevere pauses, looking at her lap, then at her brother. She reaches up and removes the ornately woven snood containing her hair, and her long, dark curls tumble out over her shoulders. “I'll go. On one condition,” she states, her fingers toying with the edge of the material.

“I'm not certain I am the one with whom to negotiate,” Elyan says.

“I want you to escort me to Camelot,” she explains, reaching for his hand.

“I think that can be arranged,” he replies with a smile.

xXx

When Guinevere returns to the castle, Queen Annis sees her in her private salon.

“Please, sit,” the queen says, motioning to an upholstered chair.

“Thank you, my lady,” Guinevere says. She has changed clothes and is now wearing a simple lavender gown. It is old, but it is not black.

“So you have decided to go to Camelot,” Annis says with a light smile.

“Yes, my lady,” Guinevere answers. “I assume my dress gave me away.”

The queen nods. “I will send word to King Arthur before the end of the day.” She reaches for a parchment, her eyes scanning it for a moment. “He has stated that you shall receive your own private rooms within the castle. Will that be satisfactory?” she asks, looking up.

“Is he looking for a governess or simply a tutor?” she asks, thinking it a little unusual that a tutor be expected to live in the castle.

“He has requested a tutor, but if there is one thing I have learned as queen is to expect the unexpected,” Annis answers. “He has three sons,” she explains. “Queen Mithian died a few years ago, so these boys may be starved for… motherly affection.”

“Oh, dear…” Guinevere says, biting her lower lip. She has always wanted children, but she and Lancelot were never blessed, and Annis knows this.

The queen reaches across and pats her hand. “No one is asking you to _be_ their mother, Gwen,” she reassures her. “I simply wish for you to arrive in Camelot with your eyes as wide open as possible.” She sighs. “His youngest son is only five, and will likely have no memory of his mother at all, poor thing.”

Guinevere's own mother passed away when she was ten, and she knows how it feels to not have a mother. She nods, then says, “Thank you, my lady.”

“Now. Details,” Annis brightens a bit. “Elyan will escort you to Caerleon, yes?”

Guinevere smiles. “Thank you,” she repeats. “I wanted nothing more than for him to accompany me.”

“Will you be bringing your lady's maid? I would consider sending another knight along if there are two of you.”

“Ah, no, my lady. Sefa is betrothed to the butcher's son, and I will neither take her away from him nor take him from his family, especially considering the recent state of his father's health,” Guinevere answers. “Elyan suggested I take someone else, but there really is no one he can spare,” she adds. “At least in my opinion.”

“I will send word to Arthur that you will require a maidservant,” Annis decisively states.

“That's really not necessary, my lady, I will be—“

The queen holds up a hand, stopping Guinevere's words. “Nonsense. I will word the request… tactfully,” she smiles.

Guinevere nods, trusting her queen. Annis' talent for diplomacy is legendary and she has no doubt that King Arthur will find himself happily complying with the queen's request.

“I will send the messenger out this evening and you and Elyan will set out the day after next,” Annis says. “That should give you enough time to pack any belongings you wish to bring.

“Yes, my lady. Thank you,” Guinevere replies.

“No, Gwen. Thank _you._ ”

xXx

“Can't sleep?” Elyan's quiet voice causes Guinevere to startle in her seat in front of the fire. She had bidden her brother goodnight an hour earlier, but when her head hit her pillow, her mind was reeling. “Sorry; I saw light coming from your open door.”

“It's all right,” she replies with a sigh. “Too much on my mind.” Sitting in a dressing gown over her nightdress, her hair in a long braid over her shoulder, she looks up at him.

“May I sit with you?” he asks, stepping into the room. He, too, is in his sleepwear covered by a dressing gown.

“Please,” she invites. He steps over and sits in the chair opposite hers. “There's a lot to do,” she says.

“That's not it,” he counters with a smile.

“No, that's not it,” she echoes. A log shifts in the fire, then settles with a soft, crackly thud. Elyan gets up and places another one in the flames. “I put on a brave face for the queen, but… I'm scared.”

“I know,” he says. “I would be surprised and a little concerned if you weren't.”

“Camelot… it isn't really reputed to be the most civilized kingdom. And no one can tell me anything about King Arthur that is terribly reassuring, and…”

“The queen didn't say anything about him?” Elyan asks.

“I didn't think to ask,” Guinevere admits. “I wish I had. And I won't get an opportunity now, because she is in council all day tomorrow.”

“Right,” her brother nods. “I have to attend.”

“Guard duty?”

He nods. “If I hear anything about him that might be helpful to you, I'll let you know. I'll try to pay attention. Well, enough to notice if I hear his name anyway,” he chuckles.

“Thank you,” she says, knowing how much he hates having guard duty for council meetings. They silently stare at the fire for a short time. “I suppose Annis wouldn't send me someplace that isn't safe…” she says, trailing off at the end, trying to find reason.

“Of course not,” Elyan immediately agrees. “If she thought you would be in danger, she would have refused King Arthur and you would be none the wiser,” he continues. “She is a good queen, and she likes you. She absolutely would not send you to a kingdom where you would not be safe.”

“Yes,” Guinevere says, allowing herself to get caught up in her brother's optimism. “Surely Camelot cannot be as barbaric as everyone says.”

“Right. I think it's simply a matter of no one _really_ knows,” he reasons. “It's not like people pass through there on a regular basis,” he adds with a shrug. Camelot is far to the south and isn't on the way to anywhere noteworthy other than the sea. And people wishing to travel by ship would be more likely to travel from Cornwall, as it has the more established harbor.

“I wonder why King Arthur hasn't come to visit Caerleon, since they are our allies,” Guinevere muses. She may have gotten to meet him had he been here in the past.

“He did, but it was very short and just after you and Lancelot were wed,” Elyan explains. “He did not even stay the night, in fact.”

“Oh. How strange,” she says with a slight frown. They would have missed it because they traveled the short distance to visit Lancelot's great aunt and uncle in Nemeth right after their wedding. The elderly couple could not make the trip for the wedding, and as they raised Lancelot, it was important to him that they visited them.

“I didn't really get to see him myself as I was on patrol that day,” Elyan explains. “But I heard he didn't feel he could leave his kingdom for very long.” Guinevere nods, and he adds. “His wife was carrying their first child.”

“Was she here, too?”

“No. She could not travel. I wondered how much of a role that played in his hasty departure, but of course no one would ask such a thing,” he says.

 _Nearly twelve years ago._ “How old is he?” she asks, curious.

“About my age, I would guess,” he answers. “Certainly not old. I heard he was not yet twenty when King Uther died.”

“So young to be made king,” Guinevere says, almost to herself. Her eyes are starting to get heavy now. Talking to her brother is helping calm her troubled mind. “I'm still scared, Elyan,” she whispers after a moment.

“I know, Gwen,” he replies, repeating his earlier response. He reaches his hand across, and she takes it.

“It's a big change,” she says. “I've lived here my whole life… I don't know anyplace else… I won't know anyone there… I…” her voice trembles, then fails.

“Gwennie,” Elyan says, squeezing her hand. “You've spent your life being good. Making choices that are… _safe_. Sometimes taking a leap can mean discovering you can fly.”

 _Or I'll plummet to my death._ Guinevere knows better than to speak her pessimistic thought, so she simply nods and wipes away a tear. Then she smiles a little, remembering how her adventurous older brother was frequently getting into trouble for taking _leaps._ But it also made him into one of the finest, bravest knights in Caerleon's army.

He squeezes her hand again, then releases it and turns to fully face her. “I won't let anything bad happen to you. If you find you're completely miserable there, just write and I will come and get you, damn the consequences.”

 _“_ Thank you, El,” she quietly answers. Her brother's words are comforting, and she tells herself to be brave despite her anxiety. _I can do this._


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you have everything?” Elyan asks, suspiciously eyeing the cart holding his sister's belongings.

“Certainly hope so,” Guinevere answers. “Maybe I should go check my rooms—”

“You've checked three times already, Gwen,” he laughs, grabbing her hand to keep her from dashing inside yet again. “I shouldn't have asked.”

“Sorry. Just nervous,” she replies, chuckling with him. She pats her hair and smoothes her skirts, her hands needing something to do. “All right. No point in delaying the inevitable,” she says.

A handful of people have come to see her off, and she takes a few moments to bid farewell to them. She hugs a crying Sefa and wishes her well, telling her she will try to visit, and when she does, she will make sure to see her. She warmly clasps the hands of a few acquaintances before stopping in front of Annis' youngest daughter, Princess Elena.

“I know you're really here to see Elyan off,” Guinevere says with a smile.

“Only partly,” Elena responds. “Your calm, kind demeanor is a comforting presence in court, and you will be missed.” She smiles brightly and adds, “I have few people I can consider friends, and am pleased to count you among them. I'm going to miss you, Guinevere.”

Guinevere hugs the princess and says, “I'm going to miss you, too. Take care of my brother.”

Elena squeezes Guinevere's hands. “You know I will.”

Guinevere steps aside to allow her brother to bid farewell to Elena. She sees him give her a chaste kiss and whisper something in her ear that colors her cheeks. It makes Guinevere smile, but also makes her a bit sad, remembering the better times she had with Lancelot.

“I will see you tomorrow, my sweet,” Elyan says, then turns to his sister. “Shall we?”

“The longer we wait, the later it will be when we arrive,” Guinevere answers. “And I'd prefer not to travel in the dark.”

“Indeed,” her brother agrees. He assists her up onto the cart before climbing up himself, twitches the reins, and begins the journey south.

xXx

They arrive in Camelot at dusk. Once they crossed the borders, Guinevere found herself on high alert, wondering if someone was going to leap out at them from behind the trees. She could feel Elyan's posture shift beside her from casual to highly-alert-but-appearing-casual and knew he was taking in every detail though he said nothing.

When they reach the town, Guinevere starts to pay close attention. _It doesn't look that uncivilized. The town is quaint, but pleasant enough._ Women are walking in the streets, unescorted and unmolested. Children run about, laughing and playing. There is noise from a tavern, but the taverns in Caerleon sound no different. She sees the vendors in the marketplace packing up their carts for the day, and finds she is looking forward to exploring it soon, wondering what wares may be available here that don't make it as far north as Caerleon.

They enter the castle courtyard and see two men standing at the top of the stairs leading inside. They begin descending when they spot Guinevere and Elyan.

“The tall one is Sir Leon. He is the First Knight of Camelot. Arthur's right-hand man in battle,” Elyan explains.

“Is that King Arthur then?” Guinevere asks, indicating the other man. He certainly doesn't look like a great warrior. Tall but not as tall as Leon, rail thin, with shiny black hair and ears like pot handles, he looks like a man who is more comfortable surrounded by books than armaments.

“No,” Elyan answers, almost laughing. “I don't know who that is.”

Guinevere is a bit disappointed that the king is not meeting them, but tries not to let it show. “I'm sure the king is busy with affairs of state,” she says, her words sounding feeble.

“Right,” Elyan agrees, his tone indicating he truly feels the same as his sister about Arthur's absence.

“Welcome to Camelot, Lady Guinevere,” the black-haired man greets them. He looks up at them with startlingly blue eyes and smiles warmly. “I am Lord Merlin, King Arthur's advisor. This is Sir Leon, First Knight of Camelot.” He nods towards his companion.

“My lady,” Leon lightly bows, his russet-brown curls flopping in his face. “Welcome.”

“The king sends his apologies as he is busy with affairs of state at the moment,” Merlin explains. Guinevere nods, but hears Elyan stifle a quiet snort beside her.

“Thank you, Lord Merlin,” she replies.

“My lady, if I may?” Leon is at the side of the cart, offering his hand.

“Thank you, Sir Leon,” she answers, taking his hand and allowing him to assist her down. Once on the ground beside the knight, she notices just how tall he truly is, lifting her face to look up at his, a foot higher. “Thank you,” she repeats.

“My pleasure,” he nods. “Sir Elyan, it is good to see you again,” he greets the other knight, clasping forearms with him.

“Sir Leon, nice to see you under pleasant circumstances for a change,” Elyan says with a laugh.

Leon chuckles, clapping his fellow knight on the shoulder before turning to Merlin. “Lord Merlin, allow me to present Sir Elyan Leodegrance of Caerleon.”

Merlin's eyebrow raise. “Your brother, I presume?” he asks, and Guinevere nods. “It is an honor and a privilege,” Merlin greets, shaking hands with Elyan instead of clasping forearms, confirming Guinevere's suspicions about the Royal Advisor. He is a diplomat, not a soldier.

“The honor is mine, Lord Merlin,” Elyan replies.

To their surprise, Merlin laughs. “Nonsense. You've never heard of me before this evening,” he says.

“True,” Elyan replies, joining his laughter. “But you _are_ the advisor to the king, so you are deserving of my respect.”

“Can't argue that,” Merlin replies, but he says it in a way that is neither boastful nor arrogant. “Come,” he says, turning towards Guinevere, “we will show you to your rooms.” He waves to some servants and they set about removing her belongings from the cart to bring them in.

Merlin offers his arm, and Guinevere takes it. Leon and Elyan follow, chatting quietly.

“Great hall is that way,” Merlin points, “throne room over there… kitchens, laundry… not that you'll need to go there…”

Guinevere listens while Merlin chatters away, knowing that she won't remember any of this right now. She finds she already likes Merlin. He is affable and seems to be genuine. So many nobles, especially those in positions of power, are high-handed and put on airs, but Merlin appears to be neither of those things.

“…And here we are,” Merlin concludes. “The king's chambers are down that corridor to the left. The princes' rooms are to the right.”

She nods, wondering why he thinks she needs to know where the king's chambers are. _I very much doubt I will ever need to go there._ “Thank you,” she says with a smile.

“Sir Leon, will you take Sir Elyan to the blue guest room?” Merlin asks. Leon nods and he and Elyan walk a few more doors down the same corridor. One servant follows with Elyan's bag. He opens the door to her rooms. “You must be hungry,” he says, stepping aside to allow her to enter.

“A bit, yes,” she says. In truth, she is very hungry, but doesn't want Merlin thinking she is a glutton.

“I will have dinner sent up within the hour for you and your brother,” he says. “I apologize again for the king's absence,” he adds, looking genuinely contrite.

“Thank you, Lord Merlin, you've been very kind,” she says. “When… when will I meet the princes?” she asks, thinking if she can find that out, she might also learn when she will meet the king. _It is more important that I acquaint myself with the children, but I should like to find out what the king expects of me as well._

“Likely tomorrow, I'm afraid,” Merlin says. “It will depend on Arthur's availability.”

“So I'm to wait on the king's convenience then?” she asks, then immediately apologizes for her impertinence. “Forgive me, Lord Merlin. I should not question the king's intentions. I am merely tired and hungry from the jour—”

“It's all right, Lady Guinevere,” Merlin says with a smile, holding his hands out in an apologetic gesture. “You need never be afraid to speak your true thoughts to me. I may be the king's advisor, but I am not a sycophant.” He snorts a chuckle. “In fact, no one argues with him more than I do.”

“Oh my!” Guinevere exclaims, covering her mouth to hide the laughter that wants to escape. She decides that she definitely likes Merlin. “Does anyone argue with him _apart_ from you though?” she asks, still smiling.

“Ha,” he exclaims. “Not really.” He gives her a sheepish grin, then says, “Right, I'll leave you to unpack. I will tell Elyan about dinner on my way to the kitchens.”

“Thank you again, Lord Merlin. For everything,” Guinevere says.

“Please, call me Merlin,” he says.

“Well, in that case, please call me Guinevere,” she replies.  "Or Gwen.  My friends call me Gwen."

xXx

Dinner is quiet and pleasant, held in Guinevere's rooms with just her and her brother dining. A very efficient servant called George attends them, and the food is much higher quality than either of them were expecting.

After dinner, Elyan begs her forgiveness but explains he had been invited to meet with the rest of the knights.

Guinevere gives him a wry smile. “Of course. 'Meet with'. Have fun at the tavern,” she says.

Elyan opens his mouth, then closes it. “I won't drink too much. I do need to make the journey home tomorrow, you know.”

“I know,” she allows, standing when he does. “Thank you,” she quietly says to George, who hurried over to pull her chair out for her. “Go easy on them with the gaming, too,” she adds.

“I'll try not to take too much of their coin,” he chuckles. Elyan excels at reading people during games of chance and is therefore frighteningly good at them. No one in Caerleon will play against him. He leans down, kisses his sister on the cheek, then exits.

George quietly clears his throat.

“Oh. Yes, George, you may clear this away,” Guinevere says.

“Do you require anything further, my lady?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” she replies.

“I will send one of the maidservants to attend you presently,” he says, then sets about clearing the dinner dishes.

“Very good,” she responds. She assumes this maid will not be her permanent maidservant, given his choice of words, and briefly considers asking him about it. She decides he is probably not the right person to ask, and holds her tongue.

Laden with his tray, George bows as best he can, then leaves her alone.

xXx

A soft knock sounds on Guinevere's door just over an hour later. She closes the doors to her wardrobe and goes to answer it.

“Lord Merlin,” she greets, smiling. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you, Lady Guinevere,” he replies, stepping just inside the doors. “The king sent me to see if there was anything you required.”

“I do not believe so, but thank you,” she says. “Merlin, may I ask…?”

“You may ask me anything, Gwen.”

“Did Queen Annis mention something about a maidservant for me in her message to the king?” she asks.

“Did King Arthur fulfill her request to find you a maidservant, you mean?” Merlin says with a grin, knowing what she is really asking.

Guinevere smiles and looks down. “Yes. I did not want you to think I was questioning the king's honor.”

“Of course not, and it is a fair question. We have found a suitable maidservant for you, but she was unable to be here until tomorrow morning,” he explains. “Forgive me; I should have told you before now.”

“Thank you. Daralis attended me this evening and was quite satisfactory, but I knew she would not be my permanent maidservant.”

“I am pleased you were happy with her, and will pass that along to Mary, our head housekeeper. Daralis is her daughter,” Merlin explains. “Is everything to your liking in the room? If you prefer a different color scheme or would like the furniture rearranged, please let me know and I will make certain it is done.”

Her quarters are beautifully appointed, finer and larger than her room at home in Caerleon. The drapes and upholsteries are in shades of red and gold, Camelot's banner colors. Guinevere favors purples and blues, but she can tell someone went to a great deal of trouble to dress this room for her, and she appreciates the effort. “I will let you know if I find I would like to change anything, thank you,” she answers.

“Understood. You need time to settle in first,” Merlin replies with a nod. “I will leave you to your rest. Good night, Guinevere.”

“Good night, Merlin.”

xXx

Guinevere is finally summoned after lunch. She spent her morning walking the corridors of the castle, getting her bearings, and hoping for glimpses of the princes.

After lunch, she decides to organize the things she brought along for the boys' lessons, knowing they will be needed at some point. _If the king ever deigns to see me,_ she can't help thinking. She is just pulling some books out of a bag when Merlin's knock comes. She can already recognize it.

“The king requests your presence,” he informs.

“All right,” she answers, setting the books down. She is far past being nervous about meeting him now. He's made her wait too long and she's become closer to being annoyed.

Merlin escorts her to the throne room. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” she answers. “Not anymore.”

He chuckles, understanding. “For what it's worth, I am sorry he made you wait so long,” he says. He tried to convince Arthur to see her after dinner the previous night, but to no avail. He tried to convince him to see her after breakfast, but he said he had to oversee training. Then he hinted that Arthur was just doing this to assert his power over an innocent widow _he_ hired to educate his sons, and was told to “Get out”. A fairly routine morning for Lord Merlin.

The throne room doors open and Merlin turns towards her. “Wait one moment,” he quietly says. He steps inside and announces, “My lord, allow me to present Lady Guinevere du Lac of Caerleon.”

Guinevere steps inside and curtseys. She takes about six steps forward before she really gets a good look at the King of Camelot.

He is young; Elyan's assessment appears to have been correct. She would indeed estimate him to be about the same age as her brother. And he is surprisingly handsome. She isn't surprised that he is handsome; she is surprised at exactly _how_ handsome he is. He's _remarkably_ handsome as he sits on his throne, one hand thoughtfully stroking his chin, studying her as she walks forward.

“Du Lac,” he says, his voice a smooth, pleasant baritone. “A du Lac from Caerleon. I was always under the impression that the du Lacs are from Nemeth.”

“Yes, Sire. My late husband was recruited by King Caerleon at a young age,” Guinevere says. She doesn't know any more details other than King Rodor allowed Lancelot to join Caerleon's ranks instead of his own.

“Your husband was related to Lord Piers du Lac then?” he asks, but it doesn't sound much like a question.

Guinevere blinks, surprised at his interest in this matter. “Yes, Sire,” she answers. “Lord Piers is my late husband's great uncle.”

“Hmm,” he nods noncommittally. “I have always wondered how a man from Gaul rose to become a lord in Nemeth.”

“I'm afraid I am unable to shed any light on that matter, Sire,” she replies.

“I did not ask you to do so,” he tersely says.

“Yes, Sire,” she says, looking down.

“I trust the new maidservant I found for you is satisfactory?” he asks after a pause.

“Yes, Sire. Freya is quite capable and I like her ver—”

“Good,” he cuts her off, clearly not caring whether or not she likes her maid. “I must say I was surprised to hear you were not bringing your own maidservant.”

“My former maidservant is promised to be married, Sire,” she says.

“And?”

She looks up, meeting his eyes for the first time. “And I had no intention of taking her from her betrothed,” she answers, successfully keeping the irritation she is feeling from her voice. _I know he is the king, but such arrogance!_

“And who is her betrothed? He must be someone of great importance for you to place his desires higher than your own. Or indeed, mine,” he says.

“He is the butcher's son,” she answers. “And the butcher has recently taken ill, so he is needed in Caerl—”

“I don't care,” Arthur interrupts her again, waving his hand dismissively. “The personal matters of commoners are of little interest to me, even less so when they are taking place in someone else's kingdom.”

Guinevere’s mouth drops open, but she immediately clamps her jaws shut again. _Perhaps his reputation is accurate after all._

“I see you disagree with my point of view,” he comments, angling his head slightly.

“How you choose to govern your kingdom is no concern of mine… Sire,” she hesitantly answers, now knowing she will have to choose her words carefully around this man. _He may be a supercilious bully, but Elyan is right. He is no fool._

Arthur leans back in his throne. “That is correct,” he pronounces. “You will do well here so long as you remember your place.”

“Yes, Sire,” she answers, keeping her chin up, refusing to be cowed by this man.

He nods once, seemingly satisfied. “You will meet the princes in one hour. Lord Merlin will come for you when they have finished their training,” Arthur says. “You are dismissed until then.”

“Thank you, Sire,” she replies. Merlin appears, escorts her to the doors, but does not accompany her to her rooms.

Merlin closes the doors and walks back over to the king. “Was all that really necessary, Arthur?”

“What?” Arthur snaps, turning his stony eyes on his advisor.

“All that ‘I did not ask you to do so’ and ‘remember your place’ nonsense,” Merlin says.

“I _am_ the king,” Arthur insists.

“Yes, Sire. You’ve certainly made that clear.”

xXx

Exactly an hour later, Merlin knocks again. Guinevere is ready, excited to finally meet the boys, and quickly opens the door.

“Ready?” Merlin asks, smiling at her eagerness.

“I am,” she answers.

Merlin wants to apologize for Arthur's earlier behavior, but he knows the king feels no remorse over it. _She won't believe me anyway if I try._

Guinevere has a hundred questions about the princes, but decides not to ask them since she will be meeting them in a few minutes. Mainly she finds she is hoping that they have taken after their mother. _I never met Queen Mithian, but she can't have been as rude as King Arthur._

Each pondering their own thoughts, they walk in silence to the throne room. This time Merlin opens the door and ushers her inside with no announcement. “Please, this way,” he quietly says, guiding her to a spot in front of the dais and off to one side.

“Prince Llacheu of Camelot,” a voice announces, and the doors open again. A tall boy, thin but showing the beginnings of manhood, strides in. He is a physical copy of his father, as far as Guinevere can see.

Llacheu stops in front of Guinevere, and she curtseys. “My lord, it is an honor to meet you,” she says. When she straightens up, she sees that Llacheu is nearly as tall as she and his eyes are a rich brown instead of his father's blue.

“Lady Guinevere,” he simply states, his voice steady but still that of a boy. His expression is carefully neutral, almost as though he has been practicing looking neither amused nor annoyed in a mirror.

Guinevere tries a smile, which has no effect. She thinks about commenting on his resemblance to his father, but decides he probably hears that quite frequently. “I look forward to getting to know you, my lord,” she settles on.

The prince impassively regards her for a moment, then steps over beside his father. Arthur puts his arm around his eldest son’s shoulders, causing Llacheu to straighten and stand a little taller.

“Prince Gwydre of Camelot,” the voice declares, and another boy walks in. Gwydre is quite thin, with wide, serious blue eyes under light blonde hair that sticks up in a few places. He is long-limbed and graceful, and appears to see every detail yet be completely absorbed in his own thoughts.

“My lord,” Guinevere curtseys again. Gwydre offers his hand. Guinevere smiles and takes it, shaking it, matching the firmness of his grip. His hand is fairly large, and Guinevere's eyes automatically drop and notice his feet are also large. _He is going to be tall._

“Hello,” Gwydre says. His voice is quiet and surprisingly low-pitched for a boy his age.

“Hello,” Guinevere answers. Then he dashes away to stand on his father's other side. Arthur ruffles his hair, surprising Guinevere with his open affection.

“Prince Amhar of Camelot.”

Amhar steps forward, hesitantly walking on stout legs, a carved wooden dragon clutched in one hand. He is clearly nervous and Guinevere glances at Arthur to see if he is encouraging his youngest boy.

Arthur gives his son a small nod, and the young boy's steps gain a bit of confidence. Unlike his brothers, Amhar has chestnut brown hair and seems to have a fairer complexion than his brothers, who have both inherited their father's golden coloring. _He must heavily favor his mother,_ Guinevere notes, and her heart clenches a little at the realization of how that must make his father and brothers feel when they look at him.

Guinevere curtseys to the young boy, then drops to her knees in front of him. “I am very happy to meet you, my lord,” she says.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I am looking forward to teaching you all sorts of wonderful things,” she says, smiling.

“Oh,” he answers.

“I like your dragon,” she says, pointing to the toy in his small, dimpled hand.

“You can't have him,” he says, holding it to his chest.

“I wouldn't dream of taking him from you,” she replies, making her voice as earnest as possible. “I was merely commenting on how handsome he is. Does he have a name?”

“Kilgarrah,” Amhar answers.

“A fine name for a fine dragon,” Guinevere declares with a nod.

“Amhar,” Arthur's voice is quiet but authoritative, and the youngest prince walks up to join his family.

When Guinevere stands, she is surprised to see King Arthur holding his youngest son in his arms. He smiles at the boy and tells him something she cannot hear.

She watches them curiously. Clearly he loves his sons very much and they seem to feel the same about him.

Lost in her thoughts, she jumps slightly when Arthur speaks.

“Lessons will begin tomorrow morning at nine,” he announces. “Merlin will show you the room.”

“Yes, Sire. Thank you,” she answers. Merlin offers his arm to her and ushers her from the room. He pauses to speak to the guard at the door for a moment, and Guinevere takes the opportunity to look back at the royal family again.

Arthur is tickling a squirming Amhar. Gwydre makes a comment which prompts Arthur to poke him as well. Llacheu is trying unsuccessfully not to laugh, and Guinevere notices the softness in his eyes as he looks at his youngest brother.

Then, Arthur laughs, and it rings throughout the throne room.

Guinevere follows Merlin out, no longer sure what to make of this human side of the man she had just an hour earlier written off as an arrogant tyrant.


	3. Chapter 3

Lessons with the boys started out fine. Reasonably fine. Fair.

Guinevere knew twelve-year-old Llacheu would be a bit of a challenge. As first born and heir to the throne, he is generally unaccustomed to anyone apart from his father telling him what to do. Unaccustomed and resistant, as it turns out.

Gwydre, age nine, wasn't much of a problem. Often overlooked, he doesn't have the self-confidence of his older brother or the precociousness of his younger brother, and is hungry for attention.

She wasn't expecting Amhar to be difficult, but the five-year-old seemed to be intent on testing her patience every chance he got. If he wasn't constantly asking “Why”, then he was dismantling something.

Still, she finds she likes the boys and tries not to let their initial behavior discourage her. When Amhar isn't trying her he is very sweet. Gwydre's hunger for attention is only surpassed by his hunger for knowledge. And Llacheu, while arrogant like his father, is occasionally compassionate and thoughtful, especially in regards to his youngest brother.

Llacheu is quite clever and, while he argues with her, Guinevere must admit he is very _good_ at it. At least until he loses his temper. But he clearly has an aptitude for politics, if he can learn to keep a calm head. Guinevere hopes he can. She hopes she can help him.

Gwydre is remarkably smart. Guinevere immediately discovered that the middle Pendragon boy reads as well as, if not better than, Llacheu. He is very interested in history and science, and is good with his numbers though he doesn't much enjoy them. Guinevere tries to remember to give him enough attention and praise so he doesn't feel like the ignored middle child.

Amhar has a unique talent for mechanics. He can always reassemble or repair the things he has dismantled (though grudgingly sometimes), and seems to enjoy figuring out how things work. He is just starting to learn his letters and numbers, but Guinevere would like to help him explore his natural talent as well, and makes a mental note to find puzzles so he has plenty of opportunities to exercise it.

After the second week, Guinevere is exhausted. She wouldn't call her lessons successful yet, but they haven't been failures. She simply needs to find a way to reach the princes. Find out their true capacity for learning and the potential they each have. She knows it is a daunting task, but doesn’t feel she can accomplish much until this is achieved. She lies down on her bed and closes her eyes, grateful for the next two days off. Time to rest and prepare for the beginning of the following week.

xXx

“I am the Crown Prince of Camelot and you cannot tell me what to do!”

The sound of Llacheu's yelling rings through the castle corridors. It's been going on for several minutes, finally prompting Arthur to slam his quill down on his desk and stalk out the door of his chambers. He pretends he doesn't hear Merlin muttering “About time” as he exits the room.

He strides towards the school room, still listening to his son rail on about how he is Lady du Lac's better and is therefore allowed to do as he pleases.

The fact that Arthur does not hear Guinevere's raised voice at all is not lost on him, and deep down, he is impressed with her self-control. He pauses outside, takes a steadying breath – his eldest is so like him that he has found he easily loses patience with the boy – and opens the door.

The scene that greets him is… interesting. Llacheu is standing in front of Guinevere, his face red. Lady Guinevere appears composed, but Arthur can tell she is frustrated by the way her hands are bunching her skirts and the proud set of her chin (he recognizes that posture because he saw it aimed his way during their first meeting).

Amhar is sitting at a small table, a long piece of wood in one hand, some sort of wooden contraption in the other, and there are colored wooden beads all over the table and floor. He looks triumphant, in a mischievous way.

Gwydre has moved into a corner, hiding behind a book, and Arthur's heart momentarily goes out to his quiet, bookish son, knowing how much he hates yelling of any kind.

Arthur clears his throat, and everyone freezes as their eyes turn to see the king standing there, his expression stormy.

“Llacheu. Lady Guinevere is your tutor and you _will_ do as she says,” he declares. His tone is quiet but very clearly not to be argued.

“Yes, sir,” Llacheu answers, dropping his head.

Arthur turns towards Amhar, pointing at the mess around him. “Clean this up. Now.”

“Sorry, Father,” Amhar says, suddenly on the verge of tears. His little fingers start scrambling for beads.

“I am not the one who requires your apologies,” Arthur snaps, addressing both boys. He turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the door behind him. He stands just outside the doors for a moment, listening. He immediately hears Amhar apologize, but doesn't hear Llacheu. Just as his hand is about to touch the door handle, he hears a low mumble followed by the voice of Lady Guinevere thanking him for his apology.

Arthur clenches his fists for a moment, embarrassed and still a little angry. Instead of returning to his rooms, he goes to the training grounds.

xXx

Late that same afternoon, Guinevere makes her way to the throne room, looking for King Arthur. She seems to recall he often holds Audience during this time, and hopes to be able to speak with him.

She can hear his voice through the doors and gives a questioning look to the guard outside. He gives her a slight nod, then quietly opens the door just enough for her to slip inside.

She stands at the back of the room, watching with interest as an old couple nod respectfully and slowly walk to the back of the room and stand, leaning against one another. Guinevere is unable to see if they are pleased or disappointed, so she turns all of her attention to the next petitioner.

It's a woman, shabbily dressed. She attempts to curtsey but has difficulty because of the three young children clinging to her skirts.

“Please,” Arthur says holding up his hand, “that won't be necessary. What is your petition?”

“Sire,” the woman speaks. Her voice is so soft Guinevere can barely hear her. Arthur leans forward to better listen. “My husband… died… two months ago… there was an accident…” The woman speaks haltingly, going on to tell the king how she is having difficulty feeding her family and cannot make much money because she has no help looking after children. “I had a cart in the marketplace… but I can't bring them along and still sell my wares…”

Arthur gently holds his hand up again. “Your husband was the one caught in the accident with the cart?” he asks. Guinevere has no idea what happened, but if a healthy young man was killed, it must have been awful.

The woman nods, then tugs sharply on the hand of one of her children who suddenly decides he wishes to leave.

“Lord Merlin,” Arthur says, and Merlin materializes at his side. Guinevere hadn't even noticed he was there. “Please exempt this woman from having to pay taxes until further notice. See that she is given rations enough for her children and herself from the stores to last her through the winter.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin answers. He makes no notes, but Guinevere has learned the king's advisor has a remarkable memory.

“What did you sell in the marketplace?” Arthur asks her.

“Cheese, Sire,” she answers. “I have goats.”

“See if you can find her some customers that are willing to go to her house to make their purchases, Lord Merlin,” he says, but looks out over the faces assembled there, making sure they know to whom he is truly addressing.

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin repeats.

“Thank you, Sire,” the woman says, her voice thick with emotion. “Bless you.”

“We will do everything we can to see that you are able to take care of yourself and your children,” Arthur says.

Now the woman does curtsey despite the children, and when Arthur nods, she turns to leave.

Guinevere watches Arthur this time, noting the carefully schooled expression on his face. She is dumbstruck at this display of compassion and understanding from him. She hasn't seen much of him since she met the princes, but that is largely because she's been avoiding him. Now, seeing him interact with his subjects for the first time, seeing him bestow kindness and charity on a widow—

 _Widow. He has empathy for her because he lost his wife._ The realization hits her like a bolt of lightning. _Three children, too._ _Maybe I've underestimated him._ Guinevere wonders how much of it _is_ empathy, because he didn't seem terribly empathetic when he met her.

Sir Leon steps forward and announces that the young mother was the final petitioner. The guards open the doors in the back and the people file out, nobles first, then commoners.

Guinevere lingers, standing half in shadow near a pillar. She can see Merlin and Arthur engaged in quiet conversation, and doesn't wish to interrupt them.

Their voices begin to raise and sound a bit more agitated, so she decides to try another time. She turns to leave, her skirts swirling around her.

“Lady Guinevere.” Arthur's voice stops her. She turns back to face him. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn't look happy to see her. She takes a cautious step forward. “I…”

“Eavesdropping?”

Her brow furrows. _Eavesdropping? To what end?_ “N-no, my lord. I didn't hear a thing. In fact, I had just decided that perhaps now was not the best time—”

“Oh, _you_ decided?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Arthur…” Merlin quietly tries, earning him a dismissal from his master. He bows, gives an apologetic look to Guinevere, and silently slips away.

“You do not get to decide when we meet, Lady Guinevere,” Arthur continues.

“Yes, Sire,” Guinevere tightly answers, lifting her chin a fraction.

“Why did you wish to see me?” he asks, his tone dismissive.

“I merely wished to thank you for supporting me this morning, Sire. That is all,” she answers, drops a half-curtsey, then turns to leave again.

“I did not dismiss you.”

She stops again and turns around. “Sire?”

“I supported you this morning because I was tired of hearing how poorly you have been able to handle my sons,” he says.

Guinevere bristles, her irritation quickly turning to anger. “I have only had a few weeks with them, Sire, and I a—”

“You should only need a few days to become acquainted with them. They are only children, after all,” he cuts her off. “Or are you _that_ incompetent as a tutor?”

Stunned, she stares at him. _Really_ looks at him. Something in his face, his eyes, contradicts his words, but she's not sure what it is.

When she doesn't respond, he leans forward in his seat. “Perhaps Queen Annis was mistaken in sending you here. She said you were a 'kind, educated woman' who 'has great compassion and will do a wonderful job teaching the princes'. I've not really seen any evidence supporting her claims,” he says, his voice dripping with derision.

 _How dare he!_ “Perhaps you have been mistaken in the correct way to raise your sons,” she blurts. “Are you even aware of how arrogant and difficult Llacheu can be? And do you know how desperately he wants to please you? Do you know that Gwydre is actually _brilliant_ but he feels ignored? And that Amhar can take anything apart and put it back together, _better_ , but the one thing he wants he can't have, so he misbehaves?” Her voice steadily rises while she talks, and when she finishes, she realizes her feet have brought her to stand directly in front of him. She can see his shocked expression and before she can stop herself she adds, “Have I just given you new information about your children or is this simply how you've raised them to be: Arrogant, ignored, and out of control?”

Arthur is fuming. He's fuming because she's absolutely correct. He's fuming because she's correct and has the fortitude to stand there and _tell_ him what he's done wrong. He stands, towering over her. “And what would you know about it, Lady du Lac? You don’t even have any children,” he coldly says.

Something he's never seen before crosses her face. It looks like he's physically stricken her, and he almost apologizes.

But she turns and flees the room before he can say anything. Before he can see the tears forming.

_I haven't underestimated him at all._

xXx

“Merlin,” Arthur says, dropping into one of the chairs at the long table in his quarters.

Merlin, who had been waiting there for him, walks over from the king's desk and sits beside him. “Arthur?”

“Lady Guinevere. She seems to like you. What do you know about her?”

“Why do you ask?” Merlin asks, puzzled. Arthur looks rather unhappy. Not mad, but… guilty?

“I may have said something very… unkind. What's worse, is that she did not deserve it. Worse still, she did not say anything to me that was not true,” Arthur admits, rubbing his hand over his face.

“What happened?”

Arthur tells him what occurred in the throne room, and Merlin listens with his characteristic stoicism, taking everything in before giving anything away about how he's feeling.

“You want to know if I know why she doesn't have any children,” Merlin concludes.

Arthur nods.

“Well, that's not really something that just… comes up in conversation,” Merlin replies.

Arthur reaches for the pitcher on the table and pours some wine into a goblet, downs it, then pours another.

“Why are you so upset about this?” Merlin asks. “I mean, I know _she's_ likely quite upset as well, but this isn't really like you.”

“I don't know,” Arthur admits. “I've felt off balance ever since she arrived here. I barely see her, but her presence feels like a disruption.”

“It's a change, and it has only been a few weeks,” Merlin reasons. “Give it a little more time and pretty soon it'll feel like she was always here.”

Arthur shrugs lightly, then takes another drink of wine. “I was expecting her to be a lot older,” he says, as if that explains anything.

“Because she is a widow.”

Arthur nods, pours wine into a second goblet, and slides it over to Merlin. “I knew she was married to a du Lac, but since Lord Piers and Lady Margarethe are so old…”

“She was married to their great-nephew, who was a knight. He was killed in the battle between Caerleon and Odin. He was close to your age, I would wager,” Merlin reminds him, taking a drink.

“I know that _now,_ ” Arthur says. He sighs. “You know what stings the most? She wasn't wrong.”

“About the boys?” Merlin asks, and the king nods. “I could have told you the same thing.”

“Yes, but I don't listen to you,” Arthur replies. They both know it isn't true, but he continues on, saying, “I don't know why I'm letting her words bother me so much…”

“Because you know she's right and you want to do better than your father did,” Merlin says.

“My father… tried,” Arthur says. He knows it sounds weak.

“Your father was a tyrant who was only interested in you when it came to matters of grooming you for the crown,” Merlin replies. “You can do better than that.” Arthur shoots him a look, but Merlin isn't worried. He's the only person who is brave enough to be completely honest with the king. _Maybe not anymore,_ he wryly thinks, thinking of Guinevere. Arthur actually respects his advisor for this, so why should Lady Guinevere be any different?

“I have been trying.”

“Yes, and you just said that's what Uther did,” Merlin reminds him. “You need to do more than merely try. Hiring Lady Guinevere to tutor the princes was a good idea, Arthur. A very good idea. You don't want people to think we are a barbaric, uneducated kingdom anymore, and this is an excellent first step.”

“I have to adapt as well,” Arthur concludes, staring into his goblet. “Or I'm no better than my father was.”

“Right,” Merlin agrees.

He downs his goblet, but does not refill it. “What do I do about Lady Guinevere?”

“You might try apologizing,” Merlin suggests.

xXx

There is a knock on Guinevere's door. She stopped crying long ago, but her anger is still simmering a bit. Logically, she knows there is no way Arthur could know how deeply his comment cut her, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. It doesn’t change the fact that it was a thoughtless, callous remark made with the sole intent of hurting her. She checks her appearance in the mirror and walks to the door, figuring it is Freya with her dinner.

“Oh,” she exclaims, seeing the king's manservant standing there with his hands behind his back. “George.” She steps aside and motions for him to enter.

“Excuse me, my lady. The king has sent this with his apologies.” George steps inside and places a vase of flowers on her table. They are lovely, clearly from the royal gardens.

“Thank you, George,” she says, shocked. She knows Arthur didn't pick them – George probably did – and it would have been more meaningful if the king had delivered them himself, but she can't expect miracles.

George bows. “My lady.” Then he exits. Before she can close the door, Freya appears with Guinevere's dinner.

“Thank you, Freya,” Guinevere absently says. She looks around and under the vase to see if there is a note, but finds nothing. She chides herself for thinking there might be anything else when she already received more than she would have ever expected.

“Beautiful flowers, my lady. Do you have a secret admirer?” Freya asks with a smile, setting her dinner out.

“They're from the king,” Guinevere quietly says. Freya drops a spoon on the floor. “I know how you feel,” Guinevere adds.

She stares at the flowers as she eats, her head spinning. Whenever she thinks she has the King of Camelot figured out, he surprises her yet again.


	4. Chapter 4

Things noticeably improve after Arthur and Guinevere's quarrel. The boys settle into their studies, each learning and growing in his own way, and before the end of the second month, they've wormed their way into Guinevere's heart.

She doesn't avoid Arthur anymore either. She made sure to thank him for the flowers the very next morning, and received the first – albeit tiny – smile aimed in her direction from the king.

She finds she enjoys life in the castle and has settled into a fairly regular routine. The boys have their lessons in the morning, from after breakfast until lunchtime. Guinevere sometimes dines alone, sometimes Merlin joins her. Once she was invited to dine with the princes and Arthur. But it was only once, and she's not sure if she'll ever be asked again. She doesn't let it trouble her.

In the afternoons, the boys have their training and Guinevere prepares her lessons for the next morning. Once those are dealt with, she has the balance of the day to do as she pleases. Sometimes she takes walks in the royal gardens, admiring the flowers. Sometimes she reads or does needlepoint. Sometimes she goes to the throne room and observes while the king holds Audience, learning about her new home. But her favorite thing to do is to go to the marketplace, where she learns just as much about the kingdom. Perhaps more. She has found favorite vendors for all her needs, and of course visits the young widow and always buys some of her cheese.

She takes her supper in her rooms, always alone, though she rarely feels lonely. She has kept up regular correspondence with Elyan and often reads his letters while she eats, sometimes reading parts to Freya. When she writes her replies to her brother, she makes certain to tell him she is enjoying her new life here and thanks him for giving her the gentle push she needed. And she always tells him she misses him.

xXx

“Lord Merlin,” Guinevere says, surprised. She was just about to head out to the gardens when the king's advisor came knocking.

“Lady Guinevere,” he says, smiling. “The king requests your presence.”

“Oh?” she asks, setting her wrap on a nearby chair. “That is… unusual.”

“Indeed,” Merlin agrees, offering his arm. “We are having a small meeting and he thinks you may have some helpful input.”

Guinevere's surprise has turned into shock. “Oh…” She gathers her wits and asks, “What is to be discussed at this meeting?”

“We are having some visitors next week,” he explains. “The king is looking for some way to…” he pauses, gesturing with his free hand, “impress them.”

“All right,” she nods, still not entirely sure what she can do to assist.

Merlin chuckles. “The king has requested your presence, so I told him I would find you,” he says, as if it explains something.

“And far be it from me to contradict the king's wishes,” Guinevere wryly says, making Merlin laugh harder.

“Oh, we cannot have that now, can we?” he says as they reach the doors to the council chambers.

The guards open the doors and they enter.

Seated around a table are King Arthur, Sir Leon, the court scribe, and an old man she does not recognize. All three stand when she enters.

“Ah, Lady Guinevere,” Arthur says. “Thank you for joining us.”

“You're welcome, Sire,” she answers, walking to a vacant chair.

Merlin holds her chair out and when she sits, the others sit as well. When Merlin takes his seat at Arthur's right, he continues.

“Lord Gaius, may I present Lady Guinevere du Lac, formerly of Caerleon. She has recently joined us as Royal Tutor to the princes. Lady Guinevere, Lord Gaius of Ascetir is one of Camelot's finest and most respected lords.”

“He means 'oldest',” Gaius says, his bleary eyes twinkling with youthful mischief.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Guinevere says with a smile and offers her hand to the old man beside her. He takes it and kisses it respectfully. “Ascetir… the forest near the eastern border of Camelot?” she asks.

Gaius looks impressed. “Yes, my home is on the southern edge of the forest. The village is very small, but we manage to thrive,” he says.

Guinevere smiles. Clearly the elderly lord is proud of his small property, and has every right to be so. She is about to respond, but then Arthur clears his throat.

The king begins speaking about the upcoming visitors and how he wishes to put forth a good impression, particularly to those from outside Camelot's borders. “Perhaps a tournament?” he suggests.

Sir Leon nods, clearly liking the idea. Gaius furrows his brow, thinking, and Merlin remains still.

Arthur straightens in his seat, pleased with his idea. He looks around the table and sees a slight frown on Guinevere's face. She doesn't look like she likes the thought of a tournament.

“Lady Guinevere?” he asks, looking towards her.

She hesitates a moment, biting her lip as she debates about whether to say something. _He wished for me to be here, so I may as well make it worthwhile._ She takes a deep breath and suggests, “My lord… what about a feast?”

“What _about_ one?” he casually replies.

“Instead of a tournament,” she explains. She sees Gaius brighten beside her and knows he likes the idea. “Host a feast. Have musicians and bards for entertainment… perhaps even some jugglers or acrobats.” _Like how civilized people entertain themselves._

Arthur frowns, not sold on the idea. “A tournament is always good entertainment,” he says. He sits up a little straighter as he thinks more about it. “It's exciting. Yes. Give the knights a chance to show off their skills. People cheering, blood and teeth flying…”

“Um, Sire,” Merlin interjects, his eyes briefly flitting towards Guinevere's. “Perhaps what Lady Guinevere means is that a tournament… in Camelot… might be a trifle… _expected_.”

Arthur looks at Merlin. “What do you mean, 'expected'?”

“Everyone knows that Camelot has the finest knights in the land, Sire,” Guinevere answers, picking up on Merlin's train of thought and silently thanking him for it. “Surely our guests will expect a tournament, and surely they will expect your highness to win said tournament.”

Arthur stares at her, and for a moment, she is afraid she went too far by adding the little bit of flattery at the end.

“Of course Arthur would win,” Merlin picks up again. “And that's entirely the point. They have all seen the great King Arthur fight. Perhaps it is time for your guests to see the great King Arthur as a man of sophistication, ruling over a cultured, _prospering_ kingdom.”

As Arthur ponders Merlin's words, Guinevere realizes she would actually like to see the king in a tournament, just to see if he is as impressive as everyone says. _Maybe I should watch the knights' training some afternoon. Perhaps from a window._

“Excellent idea, Merlin. A feast it shall be then,” Arthur finally declares. “You'll see to the details, of course,” he adds with a wave of his hand.

“Of course,” Merlin echoes, giving Guinevere an apologetic smile.

She returns the gesture with her own smile of thanks. She doesn't really need any recognition, but she will admit it is nice to have one person who acknowledges that it is actually her idea.

xXx

The day of the feast arrives quickly. Arthur had declared that the boys will not have lessons or training that day so everyone will have plenty of time to prepare.

Guinevere takes a relaxing bath that morning after breakfast, soaking in hot, scented water. Freya washes her hair and then patiently brushes and styles it before carefully wrapping it in a silk scarf to protect it until the feast.

She has purchased a shoulder-baring, sumptuous, burgundy velvet gown with gold details. It was dear, but she fell in love with it as soon as she saw it. The seamstress even tailored it to fit a little better, taking up the hem and bringing in the bodice to better accommodate Guinevere's petite frame.

She can hear the guests arriving one by one; the noise from the courtyard floating up into her rooms. She now knows who will be attending: The very young Lord Mordred and Lady Kira of Idirsholas, King Cenred and Queen Morgana of Mercia, Lord Agravaine, also of Mercia, Lord Gwaine of Fyrien, and Lord Gaius and his wife, Lady Alice. Guinevere was happy to hear Lord Gwaine's name among the visitors, as he is an old friend of the Leodegrance family and she is very much looking forward to seeing him again.

Guinevere has never seen so much activity in the castle. Even her wedding to Lancelot seemed to have fewer preparations than this feast. _Of course that was not a royal affair,_ she reminds herself. She glances over at her gown, wondering what her late husband would say if he saw her in it. He would probably kiss her hand and tell her she looked beautiful. _That's what he always said. “You look beautiful, Gwen.”_ She was never lacking for compliments. She sighs, picks up her needlepoint, and pushes away the thought that their marriage _was_ lacking in other areas.

“No sense in troubling yourself over that anymore,” she quietly mutters, her hands making neat, even stitches in the decorative pillow cover she's been making.

“Did you say something, my lady?” Freya asks, looking up from the table, where she is clearing Guinevere's lunch dishes.

“Just talking to myself, Freya,” Guinevere lightly answers.

“Very good, my lady,” the maid replies, thinking nothing of it as Guinevere frequently murmurs to herself when she is occupied with a task. She's not certain if her mistress realizes she does it, but Freya kind of enjoys the little quirk. “Is there anything else you require, my lady?”

Guinevere looks up. “Nothing right now, thank you, Freya.”

“You're welcome, my lady. I will return in plenty of time to help you prepare for the feast,” she responds, dips a curtsey, and leaves.

xXx

“You look beautiful, my lady,” Freya says. She's just finished tying the laces in the back of Guinevere's dress and has walked around to see the results. “You will be the envy of every Lady at the feast.”

Guinevere smiles. “Well, thank you, but I'm not so sure about that. They say Queen Morgana's beauty is unparalleled, and I understand Lady Kira is also quite lovely.”

“I haven't seen them, my lady, but I am certain you will be at least as lovely as both of them, if not more so,” Freya loyally insists.

Guinevere chuckles, deciding not to argue the point any further. She dons her wrap to keep the cool air in the corridors from her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and heads out.

The Great Hall is about two-thirds full when she walks in. Guards are posted at each door, their armor shining. Flowers and candles are everywhere. Delicious smells from the kitchens waft in as servants pass in and out, making last minute preparations.

She sees Merlin, and walks over to him.

“Lord Merlin,” she greets, smiling. “You have outdone yourself.”

“Oh, this?” he grins, taking her hand and kissing it. “This is nothing. You should have been here for Arthur's thirtieth birthday celebration. _That_ was lavish.”

“I can imagine it was,” she replies, wondering what exactly transpired and if the late queen was still alive. She doesn't know exactly when Queen Mithian died, but she knows Amhar doesn't remember her at all.

“It was quite the… raucous affair. The queen was g—”

“Gwen!” A booming voice cuts off Merlin's words, and they turn to see the smiling face of Lord Gwaine coming towards them. His arms are outstretched, and Guinevere finds herself wrapped in a tight hug before she can even get a word out.

“Gwaine,” she finally says, hugging him back. “How lovely to see you.”

“Yes, 'lovely' is just the word I was thinking,” Gwaine teases. “Lord Merlin, always a pleasure,” he says, reaching to clasp his forearm in greeting. Merlin moves his arm and shakes Gwaine's hand instead.

“I am not a knight, Lord Gwaine,” Merlin laughingly reminds him.

“Nah, you don't have enough muscle on you, do you?” Gwaine replies. “Of course, if I had a mind like yours, I wouldn't need muscles either.” He turns back to Guinevere. “I heard rumors that you had moved here. Couldn't believe they were true,” he says, nodding at Merlin as the advisor excuses himself. “Yet here you stand.”

“Here I stand,” she echoes. “I have been here just over two months now, tutoring the princes.”

The two old friends reacquaint themselves for a few minutes until they are interrupted by an unfamiliar voice.

“Lord Gwaine, it was my understanding that you were here alone.” A hulking, older man with dark hair stands nearby, speaking to Gwaine but looking at Guinevere.

“Lord Agravaine,” Gwaine greets, his usually gregarious and cheerful demeanor turning a bit more reserved. “And I did arrive alone. Lady Guinevere is a member of the royal household of Camelot. She is also an old friend.”

“Oh?” Agravaine asks, raising an eyebrow. “In that case, I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lady.” He offers his hand, and Guinevere places hers in it. He lifts it to his lips, where he places a rather unsettlingly wet kiss on the back.

Guinevere withdraws her hand and surreptitiously wipes it on the end of her wrap. “Pleased to meet you, Lord Agravaine,” she replies.

“And in what capacity are you a member of the royal household?” he asks. Something about his demeanor makes her feel uneasy, and she prays that Gwaine does not decide to leave her on her own with this man.

“I am Royal Tutor to the princes,” she answers.

“An educated woman! How quaint!” Agravaine exclaims.

“Um, Lady Guinevere is from the house of Leodegrance in Caerleon,” Gwaine interjects. “She is Sir Elyan's sister and the widow of Sir Lancelot du Lac.”

“Ah, Caerleon,” Agravaine replies with a nod. “I had feared for Queen Annis when the king died, but it appears she has good advisors and a strong council to help aid her in her rule. To say nothing of Prince Allard, of course. I don't know why she doesn't simply step down and let her son rule…”

“Queen Annis is a wise and strong ruler in her own right, Lord Agravaine,” Guinevere speaks up.

Agravaine gives her a placating smile. “Oh, I'm sure she is, my dear, I'm sure she is.”

“Lady Guinevere, would you care to sit at my table for the feast?” Gwaine quickly asks, offering his elbow.

Guinevere gives him a look that clearly says _Thank you_ and takes the offered arm. “Lord Agravaine,” she nods.

“Lady Guinevere, it has been a true pleasure,” Agravaine replies, and the look he gives her tells Guinevere that at no point should she be alone with this man. Not that she would want to be.

“He's a pig,” Gwaine mutters once they are out of earshot. “I want to punch his pig face every time I see him.”

Guinevere stifles a giggle and nearly walks into the king. “Oh! I'm so— Oh, I beg your pardon, Sire,” she stammers.

“Lady Guinevere… Lord Gwaine,” Arthur says, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I did not realize the two of you were acquainted.”

“I have been a friend to the House of Leodegrance for many years, my lord,” Gwaine explains. “There are few people in this world as good or as kind as Sir Elyan and Lady Guinevere.”

“Indeed,” Arthur agrees, surprising Guinevere.

“And let us not forget the noble Sir Lancelot, may God rest his soul,” Gwaine adds.

“Of course not,” Arthur responds. “Lady Guinevere, we have a place for you at the head table,” he adds.

“Oh…” Guinevere replies. _What more surprises will this evening bring?_ “Another time then, Lord Gwaine,” she says, squeezing his arm before releasing it.

“Save me a dance, my lady,” Gwaine says with a wink, then saunters away to his seat.

People are taking their places, so it is time for the king to find his chair. Arthur looks at Guinevere, hesitates a moment, then mutely offers her his arm.

Guinevere hesitates a moment before taking it. But she does, and is escorted by the King of Camelot to her seat at the far end of the head table. He even pulls her chair out for her.

She is aware of several sets of eyes on her, but ignores them. “Thank you, Sire,” she quietly says, then sits. She removes her wrap and passes it to Freya, who has appeared to attend her.

Arthur nods, a strange look passing over his face as he looks down at her, the silk of her wrap replaced by an equally silken expanse of skin that looks as soft and tawny as a newborn fawn. He wordlessly moves to his seat.

“What's wrong with your dress?” Amhar's small voice asks from the seat beside her.

She chuckles, looking down at the youngest Pendragon. Next to him is Gwydre, then Llacheu, who is seated beside his father. On Arthur's other side is Merlin, then Sir Leon, and a lovely young woman Guinevere has never seen before, but judging by how she and the tall knight are interacting, must be his wife.

“What do you mean, Amhar?” Guinevere asks.

“The top part is gone. Didn't they make it right?”

“This is how it's supposed to look,” she answers, trying not to laugh. She looks around the room and spots a beautiful woman with porcelain skin and ebony hair, seated beside a handsome, dark-haired man who looks very bored. He is wearing a small crown and she has a tiara glittering in her dark tresses, so Guinevere assumes they must be King Cenred and Queen Morgana. “See, Queen Morgana's gown is the same way,” she says, indicating with her eyes, not daring to point. The queen's gown is even more revealing than hers. Guinevere's dress has short sleeves while Morgana's has no sleeves at all, instead having very long fingerless gloves.

Amhar looks. “No, hers is green,” he says.

Guinevere gives him a look. He smiles. Then his smile turns into giggles. “You know perfectly well what I meant,” she says, grinning as well.

He nods, but Arthur stands before the boy can say anything.

xXx

Dinner is delicious and pleasant. Guinevere enjoys sitting next to Amhar, who, despite his age, has excellent table manners and needs very little help from his servant. He is also quite entertaining company, it turns out. This is his first feast and he is very excited.

Amhar is also the first one to exit after the meal, only getting to hear a little of the music before his nursemaid whisks him away to bed, complaining the entire time. Arthur kisses his son goodnight, seeing no need to seek privacy. Guinevere finds his open affection with his children both fascinating and a little endearing, and wonders what his guests think of it – if they laud him for it or see it as a sign of weakness.

The tables are cleared and people slowly begin mingling, some traveling to different tables to visit, some drifting to the space in front of the musicians to dance.

Lord Gaius and Lady Alice are among the first of the invited guests to join in, moving with dignity and grace on the dance floor. Guinevere smiles fondly, watching them, wondering what it must be like to have such a long-lasting love. The old couple is clearly still smitten with one another, and while it warms Guinevere's heart, it also makes it ache a bit.

Lord Mordred and Lady Kira are the next to step out. Guinevere doesn't know a lot about them, other than Mordred only recently inherited Idirsholas, which is located near the northern borders of Camelot. They are quite young, and Lady Kira appears to be with child, her stomach swelling just enough to be noticeable to the watchful eye. They look very happy, if not a little overwhelmed.

“Lady Guinevere, may I have this dance?” It's not the voice she was expecting.

She turns and smiles at the earnest face looking down at her. “I would be honored, Prince Llacheu,” she answers, taking his offered (and slightly sweaty) hand and standing.

They walk to the dance floor and Llacheu offers his hand again. “I just learned,” he quietly admits, suddenly looking less sure of himself.

“You'll be fine,” she answers. He finds his place in the music and begins the steps, moving carefully. “You've gotten taller,” Guinevere observes, noting that the eldest Pendragon boy is now as tall as she instead of slightly shorter.

“Have I?” he asks, then immediately curses softly under his breath, apparently unable to talk and dance at the same time. His eyes widen, as he looks at Guinevere, hoping she hasn't heard.

She has, but merely gives him an encouraging smile, deciding this is not a battle to be fought right now.

Llacheu finds his feet again, and Guinevere does not talk to him until the dance is ended.

“Thank you for the dance, Prince Llacheu,” she says, curtseying. She secretly wonders if there is a young maid somewhere in attendance he is trying to impress.

“Thank you, Lady Guinevere,” he answers, bowing slightly. “I think I need more practice,” he mumbles, frowning.

“I'm sure you will have ample opportunity to do so,” she replies.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Lord Gaius says, appearing beside Guinevere. “Will you be dancing with Lady Guinevere for the next song as well?”

“No, Lord Gaius. I think I will be taking my leave from dancing for a while,” Llacheu answers, nods, then heads back to the table, where he has cake waiting for him.

“May I have the honor, my lady?” the old man asks.

“Oh, but I am the one who is honored, my lord,” Guinevere answers, taking his offered hand. “You are quite the dancer.”

“Alice and I do love it so,” Gaius admits. “She needed to rest, unfortunately.”

“Is she all right?” Guinevere asks.

“Her feet seem to think they are older than the rest of her,” Gaius chuckles. He leans in closer and whispers, “I told her she could remove her shoes and no one would notice, but she is stubborn.”

Guinevere laughs. “Oh dear,” she says. “I do understand that feeling unfortunately.”

She finishes her dance with Gaius, and just as she is about to return to her seat, Gwaine catches up with her. “Not so fast, my lady,” he says, sweeping her back onto the dance floor.

“I was beginning to think you had forgotten,” she says. Gwaine is an excellent dancer, moving with the carefree, athletic grace that Llacheu has not yet acquired and Gaius no longer possessed.

“Never,” he answers, scoffing at the very idea. “But it would not do to keep you all to myself for _every_ dance. I had to also give the other ladies an opportunity to dance with me.”

Guinevere laughs, knowing all his bravado is just talk. Gwaine is reputed to be a womanizer and a bit of a rake, but she knows he is truly an honorable man who would never dream of taking advantage of anyone.

They chat easily, laughing frequently. She has forgotten how much she enjoys his company, and they dance together for two entire songs.

As the third begins, they are interrupted. “Lord Gwaine, I believe you have taken enough of Lady Guinevere's time and attention for the moment.” Arthur's voice is quiet and steady, and it takes Guinevere completely by surprise.

Gwaine turns to look at the king, not releasing Guinevere. “Have I?” he asks, unbothered.

“Yes, I think so,” Arthur says. He holds his hand out. “My lady, if you please?”

“Oh… of course, Sire,” she answers, taking her hand from Gwaine's and placing it in Arthur's. His hand is large, warm, and slightly roughened with sword calluses.

“My lady; Sire,” Gwaine bows to them both and exits the floor, boldly walking up to Queen Morgana and asking her to dance.

Guinevere is truly baffled, but she tries to hide it. She hadn't seen Arthur dancing with anyone before now. Not even Lady Alice or Queen Morgana. She tries to think of something, _anything_ to say, but her mind is suddenly blank. She tries to think of something, _anything_ other than how his hands feel, one holding hers and the other on her waist.

“Lord Agravaine was making his way to you,” Arthur quietly says, not looking at her. “He would think nothing of cutting in on Lord Gwaine, but he will not do so to me.”

“Oh?” she dumbly asks, still mentally off balance. She's not accustomed to being so close to him. She can feel the warmth coming from his body.

“I would not wish a dance with Lord Agravaine on my worst enemy,” he continues.

Guinevere tries to stifle the laugh that attempts to burst forth, and it comes out as an inelegant snort. Arthur finally looks at her, eyebrow raised. “I'm sorry, my lord,” she apologizes.

The corner of his mouth draws up in a wry half-smile as he begins to understand what she found funny. “We did not exactly get off on very good terms, did we?” he asks.

“That is one way of saying it, yes,” she agrees with a smile.

“I never considered you my worst enemy though,” he allows, hoping she doesn't notice his eyes following the curve of her jaw, down the elegant line of her neck, to the dip in between her collarbones, and back up to her lips before quickly looking up and over her head.

“That's comforting,” she replies. He spins her away and draws her back, catching her unawares but not so much so that she missteps. Even if she had, he is so strong and sure of himself that she is certain he would not let her fall. Arthur is an excellent dancer, better than Gwaine, and Guinevere hadn't even noticed until now because she was so distracted wondering _why_ he was dancing with her at all.

Arthur glances down at her, trying to think of what he should say. Inexplicably, he wants to tell her she looks beautiful. He has noticed her beauty in the past; he isn't blind, but wasn't expecting her to look so exquisite this evening. She smells like flowers and her skin glows in the candlelight. A few tendrils of hair have gotten loose and are curling around her neck and shoulders, and he is suddenly finding them very distracting.

“You dance very well, Sire.” Her soft voice draws him out of his thoughts.

“Thank you,” he replies. “As do you.”

“Thank you,” she answers. The song ends, and she delicately extracts herself from his embrace, not sure if she will be able to keep her composure while dancing with him for another song. She is feeling slightly dizzy. “Thank you, Sire,” she repeats, curtseying.

“Try to avoid Agravaine,” he says. “He… does not treat ladies with the respect they deserve.” It's vague, but clear enough.

“Yes, Sire. I will try,” she answers, deciding to head back to her seat. She needs a drink.

She sits and drinks the wine in her goblet, and a servant steps up to refill it. “Water, please,” she says, holding up her hand. She has decided she does not wish to lose her head at all tonight, as there are too many strange things happening already. The servant nods and waves to another one, who steps up with a clean goblet and a pitcher of water.

“Lady Guinevere!” Gwaine's voice booms. She looks up and sees him standing near the musicians.

_Oh no._

“Perhaps you will favor us with a song,” he announces, not really asking, not really giving her an opportunity to quietly refuse. “Come now, surely you haven't been keeping your beautiful singing voice all to yourself?” he goads.

“Gwaine,” she says, holding up her hands, at least trying to quietly refuse.

“Where is your maidservant? Surely she can attest to your talents!” he says, making a great show of looking around the perimeter of the Hall. “Never mind, who would like to hear Lady Guinevere sing?”

He is answered with louder cheers than Guinevere would have ever expected. She blames the drink. She looks around and sees every eye on her, even the king's, who is watching her rather expectantly.

“Very well,” she answers, standing. More cheers follow her to where the musicians are seated.

One offers his lyre, as it is the instrument most often deemed “suitable” for ladies of the court to play. She politely waves him off and asks for the lute instead. The surprised musician hands over his instrument, and Gwaine plunks down a stool for her.

Everyone waits, watching as she strums a few experimental chords. She wants to warn them that it has been a very long time since she has publicly sung or played, but then the voice of her singing master floats into her head. _Never apologize for your performance before you've even given it._

She clears her throat again, takes a deep breath, and begins.

“When the nightingale sings,  
The trees grow green,  
Leaf and grass and blossom springs,  
In April, I suppose;  
And love has to my heart gone  
With a spear so keen,  
Night and day my blood it drains  
My heart to death it aches…”

The room falls silent as Guinevere's clear voice rings out. The other musicians pick up on the song and join in, staying in the background. No one dances because everyone is listening.

She focuses her eyes on a spot in the distance, not wanting to look at the faces of the people listening. Specifically, she's afraid of what she will see in the king's face. _What if he looks unhappy? What if he looks pleased?_ Somehow the idea of him enjoying her singing is the more frightening of the two possibilities.

“…Sweet loved-one, I pray thee  
Thou love me for a while;  
I will moan my song  
To the one on whom it is based.”

She finishes the last verse and there is a moment of complete silence. Then the crowd erupts in a roar of applause. Guinevere smiles, stands, and curtseys, handing the lute back to the musician from whom she has borrowed it. Gwaine cheers loudly, asking for more.

Guinevere holds up her hands and shakes her head at him. “Thank you, Lord Gwaine, but I think I will step aside in favor of the musicians hired by the king,” she says. Her eyes unconsciously flit to where Arthur is sitting, and sees him studying her with an inscrutable look on his face.

 _I need some air._ She steps out of the Great Hall, pausing a moment to take a deep breath and savor the solitude. The cooler air and quiet makes her notice the fullness of her bladder, and she begins walking, deciding to visit her own rooms for a moment of privacy. She turns down a corridor and sees Lord Merlin talking with Freya. At first Guinevere is worried that her maidservant had done something wrong and is being reprimanded, but then Merlin lifts Freya's hand and kisses it, bringing a smile to her face.

Guinevere's quiet gasp alerts the others that they are no longer alone, but before they can call out to her, she disappears down a different corridor.

She quickly walks to her rooms, sees to her needs, checks her hair and gown, then sets about returning to the party.

She is intercepted by Lord Agravaine just outside the Great Hall.

“Ah, Lady Guinevere,” he greets, his smile looking more like a leer.

“Lord Agravaine,” she replies, looking around, hoping for someone – _anyone_ – to appear.

“You have a beautiful singing voice,” he says. “Pity you could not be compelled to favor us with another.”

“I did not wish to divert attention from where it should be this evening,” she answers. “This is King Arthur's night, not mine. If you will excuse m—”

Agravaine makes a clumsy grab for her hand, stopping her. “I should think that you would be the center of attention at any event, Lady Guinevere,” he says. His attempt at appearing charming comes across as oily, and Guinevere's skin begins to crawl.

“Oh, I don't think—”

“Ah, Guinevere – may I call you Guinevere? – you must truly be unaware of how—”

“Lord Agravaine, my husband wishes to speak with you.” A confident female voice interrupts them.

Guinevere looks over and sees Queen Morgana quickly striding towards them, her face stern.

“Ah, Queen Morgana, I was just complimenting Lady Guinev—”

“I am quite aware of what you were just doing. King Cenred wishes to discuss plans for tomorrow's journey back home,” Morgana says.

“My queen, surely that can w—”

“You intend to keep your king waiting?” she asks, arching an eyebrow at him.

Agravaine sighs, releases Guinevere's hand, and returns to the Great Hall.

“Thank you, my lady,” Guinevere says, turning towards the Queen of Cenred and curtseying.

“You are quite welcome. I do not believe we have been introduced,” Morgana says.

“No, my lady,” Guinevere replies. “Lady Guinevere du Lac, formerly of Caerleon,” she introduces herself, curtseying again.

Morgana smiles. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Morgana says. “I enjoyed your song very much.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Guinevere repeats.

“You may call me Morgana,” the queen says.

“Oh,” Guinevere lightly exclaims, surprised.

“My husband may stand on formalities, but I tend to be a bit more lenient, especially with ladies who find themselves trapped in the clutches of Agravaine du Bois,” she says with a sneer. “I have been in your shoes, Guinevere. Before I was married, of course.”

“Oh, I'm sure I would have managed to get away soon enough,” Guinevere says. “But I must say I was quite relieved to hear your voice,” she adds, smiling.

Morgana chuckles. “I saw him slip out of the hall and knew he must have been out here harassing some poor woman,” she says with a sigh. “As his queen, he has no choice but to listen to me. Thankfully.” She loops her arm through Guinevere's. “Come. Let us rejoin the festivities. I daresay King Arthur is looking for you.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Guinevere replies, pleased to find that the Queen of Cenred, who by all accounts is as cold and distant as she is beautiful, is actually quite warm and friendly. She wonders how much of the queen's reputation was gotten by design.

xXx

The feast winds down very late. Prince Llacheu was finally convinced to retire around midnight, despite his insistence on staying. One look from his father declared otherwise, and the young man grudgingly went off to bed. Prince Gwydre had gone three hours earlier, just after Guinevere's song, under similar duress.

Guinevere enters her rooms, tired and feet aching, but happy. The feast was a success, and hopefully Camelot's reputation as being primitive and barbaric will soon change.

Freya is waiting to attend her mistress, but is conspicuously quiet as she takes down Guinevere's hair, brushing and braiding it for sleep.

“You don't need to worry, Freya,” Guinevere finally says. “I'm not going to say anything.”

Freya exhales, relaxing. “Thank you, my lady. Merlin… I mean _Lord_ Merlin and I…”

Guinevere smiles. “Freya, your personal affairs are your own. And though I think it is highly unlikely Lord Merlin is the type of man to take advantage of a maidservant, I am sure you are more than capable of making wise choices.”

“Yes, my lady,” Freya answers, understanding Guinevere's careful wording. She has served in other places and has seen how unscrupulous lords can take advantage of pretty maids. “I knew we shouldn't have met there in the corridor… I mean, what if the king had happened upon us? But we sort of… ran into each other, and…”

“Freya,” Guinevere says, turning to look at her. “I understand. These things happen.”

“Yes, my lady. I was not expecting to see him outside of the hall,” she replies, following Guinevere to the changing screen. “I wasn't expecting any of this when I came here. Mary hired me, and, well, you know what people think of Camelot.”

“Yes,” Guinevere responds, exhaling as her laces loosen.

“Then I met Merlin, and, well, he's…” she pauses, her fingers stilling. “Adorable.”

Guinevere laughs, unable to disagree. “He is a good man, and I hope things work out for the best.”

“What would 'the best' be?” Freya sighs, helping her mistress out of her dress. “He is a noble. I am a maid. He couldn't marry me. It just isn't… done.”

Guinevere turns, surprised. “Do you _want_ to marry him?”

“I don't know,” Freya replies. “I like being with him more than anyone. I miss him when he's not with me, and when he is with me, I never want him to leave. Is that love? I don't know. Even if it is…”

Guinevere takes her hand and gives her a sympathetic smile. “Enjoy what time you have then. You never know what will happen.”

Freya nods, looking down. “Yes, my lady. Thank you.”

They stand for a moment, then Freya gets back to business, assisting Guinevere into her nightdress and turning down her bed.

When the maid finally leaves, Guinevere gratefully slides under the sheets, immediately extinguishing the candle at her bedside. Usually she will read or sew for a bit to settle her mind, but it is well past midnight and she is exhausted.

She closes her eyes, expecting her brain to drift to thoughts of the feast or even Merlin and Freya. Instead, she finds herself thinking about Arthur. How he looked at her after she finished singing. How it felt to be in his arms, standing so close to him as they danced. How he smelled of cinnamon and leather. How he was kind to her, even protecting her from Agravaine.

She drifts off to sleep with memories of Arthur's gray-blue eyes and full lips smiling at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Guinevere sings is called "When the Nightingale Sings", c. 1310.


	5. Chapter 5

It turns out there was at least one person who was disappointed in the lack of a tournament. Lord Gwaine had been looking forward to meeting King Arthur on the field. As one of the few people who has ever beaten the king in a tournament or battle, he always welcomes an opportunity to try for a second victory.

When Arthur discovered this, he arranged a compromise: an extra training session in which any of the visiting lords were invited to join, culminating in some friendly sparring. The knights do not normally train on Saturdays, and while participation was not compulsory, almost all of Camelot's knights were planning on attending.

So the morning after the feast, Lord Gwaine and Lord Mordred joined the Knights of Camelot in training.

Guinevere decided this would be a good opportunity to see the king on the field, especially because Morgana and Kira were also going to the attend. Gaius and Alice have already left for their home, having no desire to participate or watch.

“King Cenred is not joining the knights?” Kira asks Morgana as the three women walk to a tent that has been set up for them.

“Cenred is not even awake yet,” Morgana replies. “He does not enjoy training in the morning.”

Guinevere remembers how much wine King Cenred ingested the previous night, and is not too surprised by his absence. For a moment she wonders where Lord Agravaine is, but then decides she doesn't really care and is glad he is not there.

The women sit and talk while the knights begin their exercises. There's not really that much to watch right now, it's mostly Arthur and Leon barking commands. Occasionally Gwaine makes a remark, but other than that, it's not very entertaining.

Morgana asks Kira about her pregnancy, and the two women begin discussing children and childbirth at length, so Guinevere mainly listens, having nothing to add.

Upon hearing Morgana describing how she was bedridden for at least half of her pregnancy and for at least two months afterwards due to bearing twins, Guinevere begins to think that perhaps it isn't an awful thing that she is childless.

Then The Question is asked.

“Lady Guinevere, do you have any children?” Kira asks, turning towards her.

“No, Lady Kira, I do not. Lancelot and I were never blessed,” Guinevere answers, trying to keep her tone light. _It does still sting._

“Oh, goodness, and here we have been going on about bearing children and raising babies! How terribly thoughtless of us!” Morgana exclaims, her hand coming over her mouth.

“It's all right,” Guinevere reassures her with a smile.

“No, we will change the subject immediately,” Kira says with a definitive nod. “Where on earth did you find that gorgeous dress you wore last night, Guinevere? It was more beautiful than my wedding dress!”

Guinevere chuckles, and the conversation turns to fashion and other, lighter topics. She enjoys this time with Morgana and Kira. After months of talking to mainly the princes and Merlin, it is a nice change. Of course she talks to Freya, and while she enjoys her maid's company, there is still an appropriate distance that needs to be maintained.

“All right lads, Lord Gwaine seems to be laboring under the delusion – again – that he can best me, so what say you? Shall we give him another chance?” Arthur's voice rings out. Cheers follow from the men. He claps Gwaine on the shoulder as the knights form a semicircle around the large open area in front of the women's tent.

“What do I win when I best you?” Gwaine asks, twirling his sword, waiting for Arthur to finish preparing.

“I don't know,” Arthur replies with a casual shrug, pulling on his gloves. “That likely won't happen for years, if ever,” he blithely says. The men laugh, including Gwaine.

“Oh, come now. Friendly wager?” Gwaine goads. The two men begin to circle one another.

Guinevere watches with great interest, noting that her two companions have also fallen silent. She has seen Gwaine with a sword and knows he is highly skilled. Elyan has only beaten him a few times.

“I do not,” Arthur swishes his sword, “make wagers.”

“Worried?” Gwaine returns.

“Only for you,” the king says. Gwaine then decides to strike, hoping to catch his opponent off guard.

He doesn't. Arthur is more than ready for him, blocking his attack with a laugh.

Guinevere gasps, never having seen someone react as fast as the king just did. _Elyan said he had excellent reflexes._

The two men continue, accompanied by the cheers of the men. Gwaine gets in several good hits, but every time he thinks he has the upper hand, Arthur manages to wrest it back. Every time Gwaine tries something unexpected, the king is ready for it.

“His unpredictability makes him predictable,” Guinevere mutters, remembering her brother's comment about Arthur's skill in reading opponents.

“What was that?” Morgana asks. She has noticed Guinevere's strong interest in the match, and finds it curious, to say the least.

“Lord Gwaine prides himself on being unpredictable,” Guinevere answers, her eyes still on the field. She glances at Morgana, and adds, “I have known Gwaine for many years.” She looks back at the men. “But King Arthur is ready for him every time. My brother told me that he has never seen someone as good at reading an opponent as the king.”

“Your brother?” Kira asks.

“Sir Elyan Leodegrance. First Knight of Caerleon,” Guinevere answers. “He saw King Arthur in the battle with Odin's kingdom.”

“Oh, of course,” Kira replies. “You seem to know a lot about fighting, Guinevere.”

“Do I?” Guinevere asks, looking at the young Lady. “I suppose I have absorbed a few details here and there. I've lived with my brother for most of my life and was married to a knight, so I was always exposed to such things.”

“Your husband died in that battle, didn't he?” Morgana gently asks. “The battle with Odin.”

“Yes,” Guinevere answers. “More than two years ago now.”

The queen nods. “Queen Mithian has been gone three years,” she responds as if the fact were relevant.

Guinevere puzzles over this, nodding but saying nothing. _At least now I know how long ago it was._ She turns her full attention back to the field just in time to see Arthur duck under Gwaine's thrust, roll, leap to his feet behind Gwaine, and sweep the lord's feet out from under him. His sword flies from his hand as he hits the ground. The men cheer.

Arthur places his foot on Gwaine's chest, pointing his sword at his nose. “Perhaps I should have made that wager,” he says.

“Yeah, I don't know what I have that you would want,” Gwaine replies. Arthur moves his sword and offers the other man a hand up.

“I'm sure I would have been able to come up with something,” the king casually answers. “Anyone else fancy pairing off for a bit of a spar? Lord Mordred?”

Kira brightens up hearing her king single out her husband. Mordred steps forward, looking very young beside the rest of the men.

“There's a lad. Um…” Arthur looks around, searching for a suitable competitor. “Galahad,” he calls, pointing to a young man of similar age and build to Mordred.

“Thank you, Sire,” Galahad answers, stepping forward.

“Let's change things up a little, shall we? Mordred: your weapon of your choice,” Arthur says.

Mordred nods and steps over to a rack, where he plucks two quarter staffs and tosses one to Galahad.

“He is very good with a quarter staff,” Kira says, smiling proudly.

The two young men begin to spar, but Guinevere finds herself watching Arthur.

xXx

Arthur walks through the castle corridors that afternoon, making his way to the courtyard. Lord Mordred (who won his sparring match) and Lady Kira are nearly ready to leave, and so is Lord Gwaine.

His steps slow when he hears laughter. Laughter that sounds suspiciously like Lady Guinevere's, though he is certain he's never heard her laugh like _that._

He walks around the corner and sees Gwaine and Guinevere standing just inside the doors, talking and laughing together. He can't hear what they are saying, but something stops his feet from moving closer.

Guinevere smiles up at Gwaine, listening. She replies. He says something back, and she laughs again, leaning forward and placing her hand on his chest for a moment. Arthur's lips press together in a tight line.

Gwaine says something else and Guinevere replies with a nod. Then, she leans forward and lifts up on tiptoe to place a brief kiss on his cheek.

Arthur feels his jaw clench.

Guinevere turns and walks away, thankfully down a different corridor. Gwaine watches her walk away for a few seconds.

“Arthur.” Merlin's quiet voice in the king's ear nearly makes him jump, and he turns and glares at his advisor.

“I told you to stop doing that,” he snaps. When he looks back towards the doors, Gwaine has passed through them. “I am going to strap—”

“Bells to my boots, yes, yes, you always threaten yet you never follow through,” Merlin completes, cutting Arthur off. “Is there a reason why you were standing here glaring at Lord Gwaine, or should I simply draw my own conclusion?”

“I didn't wish to interrupt,” Arthur answers. He has no idea how long Merlin was there or if he saw Lady Guinevere, but he doesn't much care at the moment. All he can think about is Guinevere's lips on Gwaine's cheek.

It makes him cranky.

“Right. I believe the last of our guests are waiting for you to bid them farewell,” Merlin reminds him. “Do take care to be polite to Lord Gwaine,” he adds once Arthur is far enough ahead to be out of arms' reach.

Arthur turns his head and glares at his advisor once more before heading outside, trying to sort out the reason behind his ire.

xXx

Arthur knows it is Guinevere at his door. Her knock is unmistakable.

Merlin never knocks. Leon's knock is loud and precise. George knocks exactly three times in rapid succession. Guinevere's knock is soft but audible, almost like she does not want to damage the wood.

“Come,” he calls from his seat at the table, where he is glowering at a length of parchment, quill in his hand.

“You wish to see me, Sire?” she says, still puzzled at being summoned to the king's private chambers.

“You took your time,” he replies, not looking up.

Guinevere is taken aback, his demeanor a complete change from the previous evening. She gathers her wits and replies, “Forgive me, Sire. I was reviewing some books I had set aside for Gwydre.”

“Hmm,” he shortly answers.

“Have I done something to upset you, my lord?” Guinevere asks, startled by his tone and manner.

“No,” he answers after a moment. He still does not look at her. He stares straight ahead now, slowly twirling his quill between his thumb and forefinger.

“Forgive me again, Sire, but I am confused,” she says, suppressing the urge to pluck the quill from his fingers. “You asked to see me but haven't given any indication as to why.”

He leans back in his chair and looks up at her. “Tell me, Lady Guinevere, should I begin searching for a new tutor for the princes?”

“My lord?” she asks, completely perplexed. “Has my performance been unsatisfactory?”

“Not at all,” he answers, tossing his quill on the table. “I would simply appreciate advance notice if you are thinking of leaving us.”

She blinks, still puzzled. “I… I have no plans to leave… may I ask what it is that has given you the impression I was thinking of leaving, Sire?”

He leans forward again, steepling his fingers for a moment before folding his hands and resting them on the table. “You simply seem to be rather… familiar… with Lord Gwaine.”

“Lord Gwaine is a very old and dear friend,” Guinevere explains. Honestly, she thinks of Gwaine more as family than anything else.

“I could see that,” Arthur replies, his voice heavy with implication.

 _What? What could he see?_ “I'm sorry, Sire, but can you speak plainly?”

“You kissed him.” His voice is quiet.

“Yes, to bid him farewell,” she replies, wondering where he was that he saw them saying their goodbyes. “A simple kiss on the cheek is certainly allowable between old friends.”

Arthur makes a noncommittal grunt, then leans back in his chair again. “He's handsome. Charming. Good with a sword. Wealthy. I can understand why—”

“Why _what_ , my lord?” she presses, wishing he would stop dancing around the point.

He looks her square in the eyes. “Why you find him attractive as a suitor.”

“As I have already said, he is not my suitor,” she replies, feeling her anger grow. _Has he not listened to a single thing I have said?_

He continues to regard her coolly, and raises a very unimpressed eyebrow as a reply.

She swallows a sigh of exasperation. “I can see you do not believe me.”

“I know what I saw earlier today,” he answers. “I saw you and Lord Gwaine, _familiarly_ laughing together, in the corridor—”

“Begging your pardon, Sire, but I do not believe I have to explain my actions to you. My personal life is none—” she stops, not wanting to raise her voice. There is no point in arguing further anyway, as he has clearly already made up his mind. She takes a deep breath. “I think I should go,” she says, her voice quieter. She turns on her heel to leave.

Arthur feels a sudden lurch in his stomach as he sees her making her exit and has to keep himself from leaping from his chair to physically stop her.

Her hand is on the doorknob when he finally speaks.

“Guinevere…”

“I have lessons to prepare, my lord,” she softly says, her voice trembling just a little.

Then she is gone.

In the corridor, she realizes that this was the first time he called her simply by her name. She doesn’t allow herself to think about the soft manner in which he said it. She's too angry with him right now.

Guinevere stalks back to her quarters, uncharacteristically speaking to no one on the way. Any kind feelings, _soft_ feelings she allowed herself to have for this infuriating man have been shut away, replaced by the uncomfortable, hot queasiness of ire and humiliation.

“I'd like to be alone, if you please,” she says to Freya on entering her chambers. The maidservant nods, her face a mask of worry, then quickly exits.

Guinevere paces, half-formed statements falling from her lips.

“The nerve…”

“…thinks he can dictate…”

“…tell me what I can and cannot…”

“Just because _he's_ jealous—”

She stops short. _Is that even possible? Why on earth would he be jealous of Gwaine? Over_ me? _No. No, he couldn't possibly…_

She sits. _Could he?_

xXx

A knock sounds at Guinevere's door just after dinner.

She almost doesn't answer in case she should find Arthur standing there, but then decides doing so is childish behavior and opens the door.

“Lord Merlin,” she answers, stepping aside so he can enter.

“Lady Guinevere,” he replies. “Freya tells me you would not eat, so I thought I would look in on you and make sure you are not ill.”

“Did the king send you?” she asks. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't accuse—”

He holds up his hand, stopping her words. “It's a perfectly understandable, valid question. And no, he did not send me.” He drops his hand and adds, “In fact, he had no stomach for his supper tonight, either.”

“Oh,” Guinevere replies, blinking in surprise.

“Now, I don't know what happened between the two of you, but whatever it is, it's clear he feels terrible about it,” he says.

She angles her head as she looks up at him. “How do you know the blame does not lie with me?”

He tilts his head back down at her, giving her a look that tells her he is quite certain she is not to blame for their quarrel. Either that or the king's sharp advisor knows more than he is letting on. He places his hand on her shoulder. “We want you to be happy here in Camelot,” he says. “ _All_ of us,” he insists. “And I know the king can be difficult. I won't make excuses for him, or even give you any explanations, as it is not my place, but… often all he needs is patience.”

 _He does indeed,_ she thinks.

“I mean it is _our_ job to be patient with _him_ ,” Merlin explains as though he has read her thoughts. “He will come around.” He pauses. “I'm not saying you will definitely get an apology, but he will come around,” he adds with a slight smile.

“Thank you,” Guinevere says as he turns towards the door.

“You're welcome,” he replies with a smile. “Good night, Gwen.”

“Good night, Merlin.”

xXx

Arthur looks out over the courtyard. A few people are milling about, but it is mostly quiet. He feels truly awful about this latest argument with Lady Guinevere. He knows sending her flowers won't suffice this time, either.

 _We had been getting along so well._ He's not sure why it bothers him so much; why he feels such a need to mend things with her. Usually if he has an argument with someone, which is rare enough in and of itself, he just falls back on “I'm the king and therefore you will do as I wish” and moves on.

He and Merlin sometimes disagree, and they may raise their voices, but if Arthur concedes to his advisor he doesn't feel like _this._ He's never had such a tempestuous relationship with anyone before.

Even Mithian, competitive as she was, never got under his skin the way Guinevere does. His late wife was kind, but always felt the need to prove herself, even to the point of learning to shoot. Games of chance. Drinking with the knights once or twice. Once she had challenged Arthur to a pickled egg eating contest. She lost, but that is also how they learned she was expecting Llacheu.

Arthur moves to his bed and sits, propping his feet on the trunk at the end of it. Elbows on his knees, he rests his head on his folded hands.

 _Lady Guinevere doesn't feel the need to prove anything to anyone. She goes about her business with grace and simplicity._ Everywhere he goes he hears people singing her praises, from Merlin to his sons to the stablehands.

Of course she would snare the heart of Lord Gwaine. She calls him “friend”, but she didn't see the way he was gazing at her. She didn't see him watching her walk away down the corridor.

Unfortunately, Arthur knows he has done the same thing himself. He remembers the feel of her in his arms as they danced and how he felt completely content. He remembers watching her sing, then allowing his eyes to follow her form as she walked from the hall, likely in search of some fresh air. He might have gone out after her had King Cenred not demanded his attention at that time.

_If Lord Gwaine had even an inkling she was interested in him, he would court her. He would court her and I would lose her._

We _would lose her. We. The boys. Camelot._

That's when it finally dawns on Arthur. He is jealous. He thinks Gwaine is trying to take her away from _him_ , and it makes him angry. And the truth is, she is not even his in the first place, which also annoys him. Without warning, Gwaine’s words, spoken after Arthur bested him in the training session, drift from the back of his mind. Words he disregarded, words he considered meaningless, but are now sharp and clear, painful in their significance. _Yeah, I don't know what I have that you would want…_

He flops back on the bed. Now that he has figured it out, he realizes he's known the truth for a while, but has refused to allow himself to see it.

He should have seen it when she stood up to him that day in the throne room.

He should have seen it when he saw her light up when she met his sons.

He should have seen it when he first laid eyes upon her.

_I need to make this right again._


	6. Chapter 6

“Why aren't you and Father friends anymore?” Gwydre's direct question during their lessons catches her off guard just over a week later.

“Gwydre, I told you not to say anything,” Llacheu snaps in a harsh whisper.

“It's all right, my l— Llacheu,” Guinevere replies, tripping over his title to call him by his given name as he requested the previous day. And once Llacheu allowed her to address him in this manner, the other two boys immediately followed, but she is still adjusting.

Not wishing to discourage Gwydre's natural curiosity, she says, “We can never learn anything if we do not ask questions. Even if they are difficult ones to address.”

“Don't you like our Father?” Amhar pipes up, his large brown eyes beseeching. He looks a trifle pale, but she doesn't think too much of it, being distracted by this unexpected line of questioning.

She ponders her answer carefully. “Your father is a good man, an excellent father, and a fine king,” she replies, smiling at the youngest boy.

Mollified, Amhar returns to his letter puzzle, his normally busy hands working a bit more listlessly than usual.

Gwydre fixes her in his thoughtful blue gaze and says, “That doesn't really answer the question, Lady Guinevere.”

Guinevere looks down and turns away. She's gone back to avoiding Arthur, even though Merlin has assured her the king is sorry for what happened.

She is avoiding him because she's afraid of what might happen if she accepts his apology. She's afraid of her own developing feelings for him, feelings that started clarifying after Merlin left her room the night after the feast. She tossed and turned for hours before she finally decided to get up and go for a walk. When her feet took her past the king's chambers, she wished she was surprised to find herself there. She even paused outside his doors for a moment, listening without knowing why.

She moved on before the guards could take too much notice, but not before _she_ noticed the light coming from the crack beneath the doors. The fact that he was still up was strangely comforting, and her footsteps paused again, wanting to go back and knock.

It was then she realized she _wanted_ to see him, to apologize though she had done nothing wrong, just to see him smile at her again.

She hurried back to her rooms.

“I like your father,” she finally answers, still not facing the boys. “But it is difficult to be friends with a king.” It's a valid reason to keep her distance, even if it isn't the entire reason she feels she should.

“Why?” Llacheu asks. As the future King of Camelot, his is a completely understandable question.

“Because the king is the seat of power in the kingdom,” she starts, then stops, deciding to take a different approach. “Think of it like this: You love your father, correct?”

“Yes,” the three boys nod.

“Do you respect him? Know he will look after you; make certain you are well?”

They nod again.

“But would you refer to your father as your friend?” She sees them about to nod, and she stops them. “Before you respond, think about what happens when you misbehave. Does your father seem like your friend then, or is he definitely your _father_?”

“Oh,” they chorus.

“I understand,” Llacheu says with a slight frown. “There has to be some… separation. A sense of responsibility. Like how we're not supposed to be friends with the stable boys, even though they have the most fun, but we _are_ supposed to make sure they are being treated well. We can't really be their friends because we are princes and they are commoners.”

“Something like that,” Guinevere says. “But remember, it's not about being better than someone else,” she cautions. “People of all classes have worth. A good king respects his people, no matter who they are. Please remember that. Just because someone makes his living cleaning up after horses doesn't mean he is a lesser person than someone who owns property and has a lot of money. It simply means he lives his life in a different way, and often people have no control over the circumstances in which they find themselves. You three were born princes. I was born a Lady. We did not choose these things any more than Bertrand chose to be born the peasant son of the royal stablemaster and his wife and therefore, became the next royal stablemaster.”

The boys thoughtfully nod.

“But what does any of that have to do with you and Father not getting along anymore?” Gwydre presses.

 _He's a persistent lad._ She sighs. “Everything and nothing,” she answers. “As I said, your father is a good man and I like him fine. But the fact that he is king makes things a little… complicated, that's all. No matter if I like him or not, he is still my king, just like he is still your father whether you like him or not.”

“So being king is like being a father to the whole kingdom?” Llacheu asks.

Guinevere smiles, a little proud of herself for turning a personal matter into a lesson. “Yes. I would say it is very much like that indeed.” She taps the desk. “Now. Back to your lessons.”

Outside the classroom doors, King Arthur slowly walks away, having heard the entire conversation. He was about to knock, forcing Lady Guinevere to face him, but Gwydre's question stopped his hand.

He's very glad it did.

xXx

“Lady Guinevere!” Llacheu exclaims, bursting in through the open doors of her rooms. The prince looks rather upset.

“Llacheu, what's the matter?” Guinevere asks, standing and going to him. She places her hands on his shoulders.

“It's Amhar. He's ill,” he says.

“Where is your father?”

“He’s in Ascetir, visiting Lord Gaius.”

“Where is his nursemaid?” Guinevere asks, but immediately remembers the youngest Pendragon's nursemaid had gone to visit her ailing mother up in Idirsholas and would not be back for several days. “Oh, that's right,” she says.

“Will you come?” Llacheu pleads, taking her hand and lightly pulling.

“Of course,” she answers, quickly following him out.

She enters Amhar's room, which still looks very much like a nursery, to see the boy lying in his small bed. He looks even paler than this morning and more pathetic than she's ever seen him. She goes to his bedside, shooing Gwydre away. “You do not want to risk catching anything,” she gently says.

Gwydre hangs back beside his brother, who already had the sense to keep his distance.

“He's been there ever since training,” Llacheu explains. “Not that he trains much yet, but… well, you know him. He doesn't ever… _want_ to go to bed.”

“I know,” Guinevere agrees, nodding as she places her hand on the boy's head. It's hot and sticky. “He has a fever,” she says.

The two older boys gasp. “Oh no,” Llacheu says.

“I don't feel good, Lady Guinevere,” Amhar says, his voice small.

“I know, sweetheart,” she tells him, brushing the damp brown hair from his forehead. “You'll feel better soon.”

“Will he?” Gwydre asks.

“Shh,” Llacheu quickly hushes his brother.

“Do you have a court physician?” Guinevere asks.

“Yes, but…” Llacheu answers, hesistating.

“But?” she prompts.

“He's not very good,” Gwydre, always right to the point, supplies. “He just puts leeches on everything.”

“Amhar does not like leeches,” Llacheu adds. “He really, _really_ doesn't like them.”

Guinevere feels a small hand gripping hers. “Don't let him put leeches on me!” he squeaks.

“Shh, I won't,” Guinevere says. “I want you to rest, all right? I'm going to go get some things and come right back.”

“Don't leave,” Amhar says, holding her hand again.

“I promise I will come right back,” she says. She leans down, kisses his forehead, then leaves, Llacheu trailing behind her.

“Lady Guinevere,” he says, easily falling into step beside her on his longer legs.

“Oh, good, you can help me,” she says, glad he came along.

He places his hand on her arm, stopping her. “He's going to be all right, isn't he?” he asks, his bright blue eyes threatening tears. “You won't let him die, will you?”

Guinevere knew Llacheu was fond of his baby brother, but didn't realize exactly how much until right now. “He won't die, Llacheu. I promise.” She knows this is a promise she cannot – and should not – make, but also knows the prince needs this reassurance right now, and she is the only one to provide it. She pats his hand, still on her arm. “Come. You'll feel better if you can be useful.”

xXx

Guinevere spends her afternoon at Amhar's bedside, placing cool compresses on his forehead and making him drink water. When Freya appeared, Guinevere sent her to the market with a list of herbs and a purse of coins. The other two boys drift in and out whenever they are able, always asking how Amhar is doing and if there is anything they can do to help. She takes a few bites of dinner at the prince's bedside while she urges him to take spoonfuls of broth between sips of the coriander tea she made with some of the items Freya retrieved.

“How is he?” Arthur's voice makes Guinevere jump.

“He has a fever, Sire,” she answers. He rushes in, his face a mask of worry. Suddenly, their personal issues are no longer important. “But I believe he will make a full recovery.” She notices he is still in his chainmail and boots, and the smell of horse follows him inside the room. _He must have just gotten back._

“Have you any medical training?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his son's bed. He places his hand on the boy's leg. “How are you feeling, Amhar?” he asks before Guinevere can answer his first question.

“Tired, Daddy,” Amhar answers. Guinevere smiles, never before having heard Arthur addressed as such, even by the five-year-old. “Cold. I hurt all over.”

“I should summon Edwin,” Arthur sighs.

“No!” Amhar exclaims in a panic. “I want Lady Guinevere!” He grabs her hand again. “Edwin will just put leeches on me!”

Arthur looks from his son to Guinevere. She looks tired and slightly disheveled. Her sleeves are rolled up and wisps of hair are springing free of what looks like a hastily-done braid. He's never seen her looking anything less than perfectly composed, and yet she looks nothing less than perfect, even in her current state.

“I do not have any medical training, Sire,” Guinevere answers. “However, I do know how to tend a fever.”

He stares at her for a moment. “Very well,” he allows. He knows things have been… difficult between himself and the children's tutor. He also knows she would never dream of harming the princes in any way. He knows she loves them almost as much as he does.

“I'm sorry I was gone, Amhar,” Arthur says to his son.

“'Sall right, Daddy,” the boy answers. His eyes are heavy.

Arthur leans over and kisses Amhar on the forehead. “Go to sleep now. You'll feel better in the morning.”

Amhar nods, snuggling down into his bed.

“I will stay with him,” Arthur says, standing.

Guinevere was prepared to sit vigil at the boy's bedside all night, but stands and gives him her seat. “Um, this is coriander tea, for the fever,” she softly says, pointing to the pot on the bedside table. “There are clean cloths here, and this is lavender water for cool compresses if he needs it.”

Arthur nods, then looks up at her. The gratitude is on his face if not on his lips.

She curtseys and leaves the room.

xXx

There are no lessons the next day, as Amhar is still sick and wants Guinevere at his side, believing she is keeping Edwin and his leeches away.

Arthur was slumped in the chair, asleep, when Guinevere entered the room the next morning. George must have attended him at some point during the night, because his armor was now off, but he still wore the padded shirt that was just beneath the mail, and his boots were still on.

She was just pondering whether or not to wake him when his servant returned, so she stepped aside, grateful to not be the one to rouse the sleeping king.

Arthur was in and out of the room all morning, visiting his son whenever he could. He intended to cancel everything today, but the young prince asked him not to. “I'm getting better, Daddy. You need to be king, too.”

Guinevere could see the conflict on the king's face, but he eventually relented to his son's wishes. “I'll come back whenever I can,” he promised, and he did so, returning at regular intervals throughout the morning.

Llacheu hovered from after breakfast until lunch, spending the time when they would normally be having lessons in his brother's room. He stayed far enough away, but decided it was his job to distract his brother from feeling ill by talking to him and trying to make him laugh.

Guinevere finds the eldest prince's actions incredibly sweet and wonders how much a part the five-year-old's physical resemblance to their mother plays in Llacheu's fondness for him. Llacheu is the only one who has any solid memories of Queen Mithian, having been nine when she passed. She doesn't know how much Gwydre remembers of her, but Amhar surely has no memory of their mother.

Gwydre stopped in frequently, but did not stay. Once, he had a book under his arm, and Guinevere was able to get a good enough look at it to see that it was a medical book. She doesn't know where he got it, but smiled at the thought of the boy deciding to learn what he can about his brother's illness.

Come lunchtime, Amhar is tired and Merlin has arrived to take Llacheu to lunch. Amhar is able to eat some bread and has one bite of chicken before deciding he was done. At that point, he rolled over and went to sleep, facing the wall.

“My lady, will you eat something?” Freya whispers, not wishing to disturb the sleeping boy.

“Yes, but I have promised Amhar I would stay here,” Guinevere answers.

Freya nods, curtseys, and heads to the kitchens to find her mistress something she can easily eat while seated at the prince's bedside.

While the youngest Pendragon slept, his fever broke. He wakes up three hours later, drenched in sweat but feeling better.

When his father comes to see him before dinner, Amhar is sitting up in his bed with a tray over his lap, putting together a small puzzle. Arthur hurries to his son's bedside and Guinevere moves out of the way, looking on as he hugs him tightly and kisses his forehead, which is now much cooler.


	7. Chapter 7

_Who could that be?_ Guinevere's head looks up sharply at the sound of an unexpected, unfamiliar knock. Freya has just left to take her supper tray back to the kitchens, and Merlin's knock is generally louder. _I suppose it could be Llacheu._

“My lord,” she says, surprised to see Arthur standing there. He is wearing a simple white tunic and brown trousers, more casually dressed than she's ever seen him.

“Lady Guinevere,” he greets, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

They stare at one another for a few awkward moments. “Won't you come in?” she finally says, stepping aside, guessing he is waiting for an invitation.

“I don't want to disturb you,” he replies.

“I wasn't doing anything important,” she answers.

He steps inside, and, after hesitating a moment, she closes the door.

“I thought you might be preparing your lessons,” he says.

“I do that after lunch, while that day's lesson is still fresh in my mind,” she explains. “Would… would you care to sit?”

“Thank you,” answers, and follows her to the fireplace. The night is chilly and she has a roaring fire going.

“I don't have any wine, but would you care for some water?” she offers, her hand hovering near the pitcher Freya customarily leaves for the evening.

“Thank you,” he repeats.

She pours two goblets and hands him one before sitting opposite him. Now it is her turn to wait for him.

“I would like to thank you for looking after Amhar,” he says, staring into his goblet. He glances up at her for a moment, allowing himself only that long to appreciate how she looks in the soft glow of the fire before dropping his eyes again. “You did not have to do any of it.”

She is stunned. “You are most welcome, Sire, and I was happy to help,” she replies. “I've grown quite fond of the princes.”

“I am aware,” he says. “They are fond of you as well.”

The unspoken additional words _I am fond of you also_ hang heavily in the air between them. Neither says them; both think them.

Guinevere takes a sip and clears her throat. “Llacheu is very protective of Amhar,” she comments.

“Ah. Yes. Yes, he is,” Arthur replies. “We all are.”

“Is it…” she starts, then hesitates.

“Yes?”

“Is it because Amhar favors his mother?” she asks. “I'm merely guessing, of course, but since he seems to look very little like you…”

He nods a little. “He looks so much like Mithian,” he confirms. “I daresay he has several of my _other_ traits, but he is the physical copy of his mother.”

Guinevere smiles, knowing some of the traits to which Arthur is referring. Stubbornness. Pride. Possibly mischief, but that is a guess. “He has your scowl,” she volunteers.

To her surprise, Arthur laughs. “He does at that,” he agrees. He takes a long drink, then says, “His resemblance to his mother may be what prompted Llacheu's protectiveness, but…”

“Yes?” she prompts, curious.

He looks at her. “Well… you know what it is to lose someone. Someone dear,” he says.

She nods. “Yes,” she answers.

“Amhar has been ill a few times before this. I have to stop myself from… flying into a panic every time,” he admits, his voice soft. “It gets a little easier as he gets older, but…” He rubs his hand over his face. “My mother died in childbirth. I never knew her,” he says. “So I know what it feels like to grow up without a parent. I do not wish to know what it feels like to be a parent who has lost a child. Especially after already losing his mother.” He looks down, then away.

As surprised as Guinevere is at Arthur’s confession, her heart suddenly goes out to him. She almost reaches across to take his hand, but stops herself. _Amhar heavily favors Mithian. She died of illness, so naturally when Amhar falls ill, Arthur fears the worst._ It is a sobering realization. “You must have loved her very much,” she says, for lack of anything better to say.

He doesn't immediately answer. “I did love her… in a way,” he admits. “It was a strategic marriage. I was very young, just shy of 20, and my father had died a few weeks earlier. I needed Nemeth, or someplace like her. I needed the support of a more… established kingdom,” he carefully says, indicating he is well aware of Camelot's “barbaric” reputation. “King Rodor had a pretty daughter who had just come of age.” He pauses, taking a drink. “She was educated and refined; the very picture of a lady, much like yourself,” he unthinkingly says, gesturing towards Guinevere with his goblet. “But she was strangely competitive with me. Felt she had to prove herself… I suppose. I tried to gently tell her it wasn't necessary, tried to tell her… that she was pushing herself too hard.”

“She wouldn't hear it,” Guinevere guesses.

“Of course she wouldn't,” Arthur says with a humorless chuckle. “ _Everything_ was a competition. It was… tiring, even for me,” he admits. “She wouldn't accept that she wasn't as healthy as she wished to be.” He looks up at her. “I wish I could say I wasn't surprised she was able to bear me three healthy sons. Probably did it just by sheer force of will,” he chuckles again, still without much humor. “I wish I could say I _was_ surprised when she fell gravely ill.” He takes another drink and falls quiet for a moment. Guinevere waits. “I was very fond of her… yes, I suppose I _did_ love her… but I would be lying if I said she was the great love of my life. At least I hope she wasn't.” Another thoughtful pause. “Kings are not often afforded that luxury,” he concludes.

Guinevere is surprised. _Mighty King Arthur, a romantic?_ “You are young… and handsome, and your kingdom is prospering, Sire. Surely it is not too late,” she quietly says, thinking back to when Elyan said nearly the same thing to her. When she looks over at him, he is studying her intently, his slate blue eyes boring into her, drawing her eyes to meet his. The moment stretches, and Guinevere's lips part just slightly.

Arthur's gaze drops to her lips, lingers for a beat, and then he looks away. He clears his throat. “Tell me about your husband,” he says. “I only know of him by reputation, and I am… curious if he truly lived up to it.” _I am curious about the man who was able to earn her heart._

She takes a drink, thinking about how to answer his question. “He was a good man and a great knight,” she replies with a slight nod. “He was truly noble… not only by birth, but also by deed. He treated every man and woman with kindness and respect.”

“Was your marriage arranged?” he bluntly asks.

“No,” she replies. “He courted me. Asked my father's permission… and my brother's. My brother was his captain, you see.” He nods and she continues. “Claimed he was smitten the first time he saw me.”

He peers at her. He can certainly understand being immediately attracted, but can't help thinking there is something she isn't saying.

“It was all very nice, and… perfect. He was always sweet and kind, always the perfect, noble knight,” she says, staring into the fire.

Arthur definitely knows she is withholding something, and, curiosity piqued, tries to find a way to draw it out of her.

“He was too perfect,” Guinevere nearly whispers the admission before Arthur comes up with his question. “At least, that was the impression he gave.”

“Was he cruel to you?” Arthur asks, suddenly very worried that brave and noble Sir Lancelot had been beating his beautiful wife behind closed doors. It does happen, and more frequently than most people realize.

She looks at him, eyes wide. “No! Oh, goodness, I see how you could draw that conclusion from my words, but no,” she exclaims, and is quite surprised to see relief wash over Arthur's features. “He was good to me, but… I don't know that I ever _truly_ knew him. And I know he never truly knew me.”

Arthur's brows furrow. “How is that possible?” He was always under the impression that people who had the good fortune to be able to choose their mates had better, happier, stronger marriages than those who had their spouses decided for them. That there would be no one you know better than the person with whom you chose to spend your life.

Guinevere bites her lip, unsure how much she should say. How much she can _allow_ herself to say. She's never confided this information to anyone, not even Elyan. “He was always very… careful. Always trying to make me happy with little gestures and gifts. Never wished to upset me, never disagreed with me, always deferred to my wishes.” She pauses, takes a long drink of her water and whispers, “Never shared his true self with me.”

“What was that?” Arthur asks, not sure he has heard correctly.

“It was all superficial,” she finally blurts, slumping back in her chair. “We had no meaningful conversations about our feelings, hopes, desires, wishes… our _selves_. He… placed me on a pedestal, treating me like a… a prized possession instead of a real person.” Her eyes water with the emotions of finally saying all these things, out loud, to someone else. “I don't know if 'possession' is quite the right word,” she mutters, blinking back her tears. “All I know is I knew his favorite color but not his deepest fear or greatest joy.” As she looks over at Arthur, she realizes she is fairly certain she knows both of those things about him.

“I am sorry,” Arthur says. “I had no idea.”

“No one did,” she replies. “Even now. You're the first person I've ever told.”

“Oh,” he softly exclaims, momentarily speechless.

“Everyone thought we were happy. The perfect couple.” She sighs. “Even when we lost the baby, all people saw was how he doted on me, nursing me through my recovery…”

Arthur suddenly feels very, very small and slightly ill, as though his stomach has dropped into his shoes. “Baby?” He didn't mean to ask, but the question could not be stopped.

Guinevere looks over at him, her expression grave. “I miscarried,” she says. “It took years to conceive, and then I miscarried.” She looks away before the tear falls, and quickly swipes it away before reaching into a hidden pocket for her handkerchief. “He wouldn't talk about it with me. Ever. I never knew how he truly felt about it, and he never asked me how I felt about it.” Everything is spilling out now that the dam has been cracked. “Of course he would ask how I was feeling, but he didn't mean _that_ way. The way that was most important. My body healed, but my emotions… my _soul_ needed mending, and he…” She breaks off now, unable to continue.

He reaches across and gently, hesitantly places his hand over hers. “Guinevere, I cannot begin to say how sorry I am. I had no idea,” his voice is soft and full of sympathy, and it only makes her cry harder.

“There was no way you could have known,” she says, sniffling. “But thank you.”

“I never would have said… what I said that day… in the throne room… if I had,” he says. “And even so, it was a truly awful thing to say all on its own, regardless of your personal circumstances. I beg your forgiveness for it.”

She regards him for a moment, giving her tears a moment to abate before responding. “I forgive you, Sire,” she softly says.

“Thank you,” he replies, shoulders slumping in relief. “You may call me Arthur,” he quietly adds.

“I do not think that would be appropriate,” she says, slipping her hand out from beneath his to dab her eyes with her handkerchief.

“When we are simply talking… like this, I do not see the harm,” he says, stopping himself from using phrases like “In private” or “When we are alone” lest she get the wrong idea.

“If that is your wish,” she replies.

 _I want it to be your wish_ is Arthur’s immediate thought, but he holds it back. He had not come here to declare himself to her, but has now come close to doing so at least twice. He looks at her. “Was it a relief when he died?” he asks. It is a blunt question, but posed gently.

She looks away and stares into the diminishing fire for a long moment before answering. “Would I be a terrible person if I said ‘A little’? Because part of me was relieved, yes,” she replies, still looking at the flames.

“If you are a terrible person, then so am I,” he honestly answers, and Guinevere then knows he was hoping she would give that particular answer. “I was grieved, of course, but there was this… nugget of relief in my belly, shrouded by guilt.”

She nods, completely understanding his meaning. “He has been gone more than two years now, and I only stopped wearing my widow’s mourning colors when I came to Camelot,” she says.

“Because of that guilt?” he asks.

“I think so. That, and it was… safe. I could hide behind my mourning and… not allow myself to be open to…” her eyes flicker to his for just an instant, “anything,” she concludes, talking to the floor.

Arthur slowly nods, unsure how to respond. He understands exactly what she is saying, but is afraid admitting it will reveal too much of his heart, reveal the true reason for his erratic behavior where she is concerned, most of which he deeply regrets. He reaches for his goblet and holds it between flat palms, rolling it back and forth a few times before taking a drink. “I… I would like to also ask for your forgiveness for my behavior the day after the feast. You were correct: I had no right to make any accusations,” he says, deciding to change the subject.

“Thank you again,” she answers. She has had a lot of time to think about how her interactions with Gwaine may have looked to an outsider, and while they were not inappropriate, they were definitely _familiar_ , to use Arthur's word. “I… I do understand how you could have arrived at the conclusion you did—”

“It was still no excuse for me to behave like a boor,” he interjects. “I… jumped to conclusions. Made incorrect assumptions. Reacted before I had all the information.” He sighs. “I know better. As a king, a knight, and a man.”

She looks at him. “Yes, you are a man… Arthur,” she says, trying out his name. She likes saying it more than she will admit. “People make mistakes, and if they are wise, they learn from them.” She very slowly reaches across and touches his hand. He looks up at her. “You are a wise man,” she adds, withdrawing her hand.

He raises his eyebrows. “I must say I am surprised you think so,” he says, the barest smile playing about his lips.

She tries not to look at said lips. “Well, there are a lot of… words… that come to mind when I think of you, but 'fool' is not one of them,” she says, smiling a little.

“That's certainly reassuring,” he chuckles. “But I doubt you have made many mistakes in your life,” he adds.

She looks at him, thinking he may be jesting, but his expression is quite sincere. “Oh, I've made a few,” she answers with a smile that manages to be both sad and a little mysterious.

Arthur is intrigued, but decides asking about the details of Guinevere’s enigmatic response is best left for a later conversation, hopefully when they know each other a bit better. He then notices the roaring fire has burned down to mostly embers, so he lifts his goblet to his lips, drains it, and sets it on the table. “It is getting late,” he says. He doesn't really wish to leave but also does not want their visit to be construed as improper by staying late into the night. Alone. In her chambers.

“Yes,” she agrees, her heart sinking a little as he prepares to leave. He stands, and she follows suit.

They silently walk to the door, the atmosphere thick and heavy between them. She reaches for the door handle.

“Guinevere,” he says, his voice rolling over her like warm velvet. She swallows the gasp; ignores the way her stomach drops at the sound of it. He holds out his hand, and she pauses a moment before placing hers in it. “Thank you.” He lifts her hand and brushes the barest hint of a kiss across her knuckles.

It is a rather polite, chaste kiss, a kiss to express his gratitude and emphasize the apologies offered, yet she still feels it on her skin after she's withdrawn her hand. “Y-you're welcome, Sire,” she answers, her voice a whisper. “Arthur,” she corrects.

“Good night,” he says, releasing her hand, then opening the door himself.

“Good night,” she answers, but he is already gone.


	8. Chapter 8

Guinevere stops avoiding Arthur after their conversation, but being around him still isn't easy. They don't seem to know how to behave with one another, especially when others are present.

Every time someone unexpectedly knocks on Guinevere's door, she jumps. Arthur always finds himself looking for glimpses of her while he is hearing petitions from his subjects in the throne room or walking through the castle corridors. Guinevere has found a window from which she can watch the knights train without being seen, and visits it more than she cares to admit. Arthur often finds himself outside the doors of the boys' classroom, just listening to her give them their lessons.

They are polite and cordial when they do encounter one another, trying not to let their gazes linger too long. Being very careful not to touch each other in any way. But they do not seek one another out and Arthur has not invited her to dine with his family again, despite the fact that his sons have asked several times.

The princes have noticed their tutor is once again “friends” with their father, but are thankfully too young to pick up on the tension that exists between the two adults whenever they are together.

Merlin has noticed; so has Freya. Neither of them has said anything to anyone apart from one another. And they only ever speak freely to one another in private.

Weeks pass this way, with the king and the tutor carefully dancing around each other.

 _I suppose it's better than fighting all the time,_ Guinevere thinks one afternoon, sinking into a chair in her rooms. She has just returned from a walk in the gardens, where she had been hoping to find some peaceful solitude.

She did find it there, but also found Arthur on her way back into the castle, where they exchanged a few awkward pleasantries. He tried to ignore the dewy glow that had settled on her skin from being out in the warm sunshine, and she tried to ignore how his tousled hair and sun-kissed features from the training grounds gave him the appearance of a simple man who is young and free of care.

She tried not to return his shy smile as he bid her farewell.

She did not succeed.

Guinevere closes her eyes for a moment, then jumps a moment later when someone knocks. Assuring herself it won't be Arthur, as she saw him only minutes ago, she stands and walks to the doors.

“Message from Caerleon for you, Lady du Lac.” It is a young man, wearing Caerleon's colors. Sir Leon is standing behind him, obviously there for her protection lest this messenger mean her any harm.

She recognizes this boy and knows he is completely harmless. “Thank you, William,” she answers, smiling up at the tall knight behind him.

William grins, bows, and turns to leave.

Guinevere glances down at the scroll in her hand and sees it bears both the seals of Caerleon and Leodegrance. “William,” she calls, and the boy stops.

“My lady?”

“Was there a message like this for the king as well?” she asks, holding up the scroll.

He glances at Sir Leon, and the knight nods. “There was a message for the king, my lady. But not like yours. It only had Caerleon's seal.”

 _Curious._ “Thank you, William. Sir Leon, would you be kind enough to see to it that this stalwart messenger receives a bite to eat before his journey back?”

Leon nods. “We are heading to the kitchens next, my lady. The king has recommended he stay the night in the servants' quarters and return in the morning. The roads become rather more dangerous as the days grow warmer and longer.”

“Of course. Thank you,” she replies.

Leon inclines his head in acknowledgement and continues down the corridor with the young man.

Guinevere closes her door and sits, opening the scroll. She knows what it contains. Her brother had written a few weeks ago and told her he had finally asked for Princess Elena's hand in marriage. She had been expecting the invitation any day now.

Her eyes quickly scan the invitation. It is fairly standard for a noble wedding, but not a royal one. Elyan had explained that Elena convinced her mother to allow them to have a small affair. She is the youngest of six children, but not the last to marry. She and Elyan did not want a large, royal wedding, and Annis consented.

At the bottom of the invitation, Elyan has written her a message: _Sir Percival will be coming to escort you to Caerleon in two days._

Two days. That is just enough time to find a new dress and pack. She thinks about wearing the burgundy velvet dress from the feast, but decides it will probably be much too warm for that particular gown.

She sets the letter on the table, and it rolls back up on itself. She stands and decides to visit the seamstress, suddenly excited about the prospect of seeing her brother again. Of going home.

xXx

“Ah, Gwen, I've been looking for you,” Merlin greets her on her return to the castle. He reaches over and removes the parcel from her hands and offers his arm.

“Hello Merlin,” she greets. “I needed a dress for my brother's wedding, so I went to see the seamstress in the marketplace,” she says, taking his arm.

“Did I not tell you that you may use the services of the royal seamstress?” he asks, knowing full well he had done so.

“Yes,” she answers, “but Elga did such an excellent job with my gown for the feast I wished to give her another opportunity.”

“Fair enough,” Merlin replies. “When will you be leaving? Do you require an escort?”

“Is that why you were looking for me?” she returns. “Sir Percival of Caerleon will be arriving the day after tomorrow to escort me,” she answers. “Did Queen Annis not say so in her letter to the king?” she adds, guessing.

Merlin stops and looks down at her. “How did you know the queen wrote to Arthur?”

“I asked the messenger if the king had received an invitation. He told me he brought a message to the king, but it only had Caerleon's seal, not both as mine had.”

Merlin nods, understanding. “She wished to explain and apologize for—”

“For not inviting him, yes, I had guessed as much,” Guinevere finishes. They reach her room and Merlin reaches over to open the door for her.

He looks at her. “He wanted to make sure you weren't going to travel alone all that way.”

She steps inside, and he follows, leaving the door open. “Of course not.” _Was he thinking to escort me himself? Surely not…_

“I didn't think so. Told him as much.” He looks her directly in the eyes and adds, “He insisted I ask.”

She stares back a moment, wondering how much Merlin suspects about her admittedly strange relationship with the king. _He's a remarkably perceptive man, and no one knows Arthur better than he. He has to be aware of… something._ “Please thank him for his concern on my behalf,” she quietly replies.

“I will. Freya will be up with your dinner presently,” he says, then sets her parcel on the table before turning to leave. He pauses at the door, as if he is going to say something, but then seems to decide against it and continues out.

Guinevere sits at the table, resting her head in her hands. _Perhaps I will be able to think with a clear head while I am in Caerleon._

xXx

Percival arrives just as the sun appears over the trees, turning every head as he rides into the courtyard.

Arthur spots him from his window. “Merlin,” he says, and his advisor silently appears at his elbow.

“That must be Sir Percival,” Merlin observes.

“Thank you, Merlin. I do recognize the man,” Arthur returns, his voice tinged with sarcasm. Sir Percival is a pretty unforgettable figure, especially on the field of battle. “I was going to ask you to head down, welcome him, and offer him a bite of breakfast.”

“I daresay a man that size requires more than a bite,” Merlin says. Percival is the biggest man he's ever seen, astride the biggest horse he's ever seen. “At least you can rest assured Lady Guinevere will be well-protected,” he adds, looking sideways at the king, carefully watching his reaction.

A muscle in Arthur's jaw twitches, but his expression stays otherwise neutral. That is, until his eyes widen a moment later. Merlin follows his gaze down to the courtyard below.

Guinevere has appeared, walking briskly to greet Sir Percival. The large man's face lights up in a smile as he sees her, and when she reaches her arms out to him, his hug lifts her off her feet.

Arthur's face darkens and he turns away from the window. “Merlin, I believe I gave you instructions,” he snaps.

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin replies, and makes a beeline for the door. He thinks about reassuring his master that Sir Percival and Lady Guinevere have likely known each other since childhood, but decides against it, since he's not completely certain that is the case.

It wouldn't do any good anyway.

He meets Percival and Guinevere in the main entrance corridor. “Sir Percival, welcome to Camelot,” Merlin greets. “King Arthur sends his apologies, but he is not yet dressed for the day. He will greet you in due course.”

“Sir Percival, this is Lord Merlin, the king's advisor,” Guinevere says, introducing him.

Percival extends his hand and shakes Merlin's. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Merlin,” he says. “And I _am_ very early, so I understand if the king is not yet prepared for the day.”

“Did you travel all night?” Merlin asks, leading the way to the hall.

“Not all,” Percival answers. “I stopped to sleep.”

“That can be dangerous, especially this time of year,” Merlin says.

Percival shrugs. “Bandits tend to leave me alone,” he replies. “Can't imagine why,” he adds with an impish smile.

“Percival is actually very sweet-tempered,” Guinevere tells Merlin as he pulls out her chair. “His family home was near ours and we used to play together as children. Elyan, Percival, Percival's sister Lorica, and me. He's like another brother.” She and Percival share a fond smile.

Arthur appears in the doorway, George hovering behind him.

“My lord,” Merlin greets, standing. “I believe you know Sir Percival of Caerleon.” Percival and Guinevere stand as well.

The king strides forward. “Only from the battlefield,” Arthur says, clasping arms with the knight. “We’ve never been formally introduced. Welcome to Camelot, Sir Percival. It is good to see you under pleasant circumstances.”

“It is an honor to meet you, my lord, and thank you for your hospitality,” Percival replies.

Arthur gives an answering nod before his eyes flicker to Guinevere for a second. They all take their seats, Arthur waves to George, and servants immediately appear with trays.

“Sire, Lady Guinevere was just telling us how she and her brother think of Sir Percival as family,” Merlin says.

“That sounds very nice,” Arthur says, trying not to glare at his advisor. He hasn't spoken a word to Merlin about his feelings for Guinevere, but somehow he seems to have figured it out. _I suppose that is what I get for having the most brilliant man in the land as my personal advisor._

“Lady Guinevere is even godmother to my daughter,” Percival says.

“An honor indeed,” he says, wondering if Lancelot was named godfather with her but knowing better than to ask. “Do you have many children?” Learning that Percival is married with children makes him suddenly feel lighter, but he tries not to let it show, hiding behind his goblet as he takes a drink.

“I have two sons, a daughter, and we recently learned we have been blessed a fourth time, my lord,” Percival says.

“Really? How wonderful!” Guinevere exclaims. “Oh, forgive me for interrupting, Sire.”

Arthur meets her eyes for a charged moment before replying, “There is nothing to forgive, Lady Guinevere. Your reaction is quite understandable.” Now that he knows her history, he wonders if it pains her to hear such news. “Congratulations, Sir Percival,” he says to the knight.

“Thank you, Sire. This food looks delicious,” he says.

They eat quietly for a minute or so, then Percival speaks again.

“Sire,” he says between bites, “Forgive me, but I would be remiss to not ask you for advice on battle strategy while I am here.” He glances at Guinevere and adds, “Sorry, Gwen, I know this probably isn't high on your list of favorite breakfast conversations.”

“It's all right,” she replies, in fact quite happy for a topic in which she doesn't have to participate. “Please.”

 _Gwen?_ Arthur hasn't heard anyone address her so familiarly before, and in fact had never even thought to call her anything but “Guinevere”. It throws him for a moment before he regroups and turns his attention to Percival. “I am always happy to share strategies with a trusted ally. With which aspects are you primarily concerned?”

xXx

After breakfast, Arthur excuses himself while Guinevere and Percival head to her rooms. She needs to pack a few last-minute items and make certain she hasn't forgotten anything.

Percival sits at her table while she bustles around. “Camelot is much nicer than I've heard,” he comments.

“Yes. I don't know how or why it got its reputation for being primitive and barbaric, but it is not true,” she replies. Freya has most of her things in order, but Guinevere's nerves compel her to double check. “I know King Uther was not exactly known for being kind or open to new ideas, but Arthur is not like that at all.”

Percival nods. “I know he's an excellent warrior, and he seems like a good king.” He pauses, looking at his fingernails. “Is he?”

“Hmm?” she asks, distracted.

“Is he a good king? A good man?” he clarifies.

“Yes,” she immediately answers. “And a good father as well.” She closes her bag. “I think that's the lot. I'll just call for some pages to carry these things for me, and we can be off.” She begins heading towards the doors.

“Gwen,” Percival says, and she stops, turning to face him. “If everything is so _good…_ why don't you seem very happy? You were… conspicuously quiet at breakfast. I know we were talking about combat, but you are accustomed to such discussions and usually have at least a few things to contribute.”

Guinevere presses her lips together and looks up, then down. “I can't talk about this now,” she says. “Not here.”

“What is it?” he asks, despite what she just said.

She shakes her head a little. “Nothing. I just… need to think about some things, and I don't think I can do that here. I'm hoping being home will help me get my thoughts in order.”

He ponders her words a moment, then stands and says, “We can talk on the way home.” She gives him a level look and he adds, “Or not. Up to you.”

xXx

Guinevere and Percival walk into the courtyard a short time later to find the three princes waiting near their horses. Percival's giant black steed has been watered, fed, and rubbed down, while a sweet-tempered brown mare has been prepared for Guinevere.

“Lady Guinevere!” Amhar exclaims, running towards her, his dimpled knees pumping with each step. He nearly tackles her, throwing his arms around her hips in a tight hug.

“Hello Amhar,” she says, laughing. “Amhar,” she adds, prying the young boy off of her, “have you met Sir Percival?”

Amhar looks up and up until he finds the knight's face, his little mouth agape.

“My lord,” Percival greets with a smile and a bow.

“You're _tall_ ,” Amhar says. “You're taller than Sir Leon!”

“Would you like to see what it's like to be this tall?” Percival asks, laughing. By now the other two princes are heading towards them, curious.

Amhar enthusiastically nods. Percival scoops him up and places him on his shoulders. “Oh!” Amhar exclaims. “Oi! Llacheu! I'm taller than you now!”

Llacheu snorts a laugh, shaking his head. He and Gwydre slow their steps as Guinevere and Percival approach. From atop his perch, Amhar is waving at everyone.

A few people have stopped their tasks to watch, but Guinevere doesn't spot the one person she is hoping will come to see her off. Arthur is conspicuously absent.

“All right, Amhar, I think that's enough,” she says, and Percival lifts the boy down. “Sir Percival, may I present Prince Llacheu and Prince Gwydre.”

Percival bows to both boys. “My lords,” he greets. “It is an honor to meet all of you. Maybe one day my sons will be joining you on the field of battle, the way I fought alongside your father.”

“You have sons?” Llacheu asks.

“I have two sons and a daughter,” he answers. “She's about…” he looks at Gwydre, “your age, I would guess.” Gwydre's eyes widen and his cheeks grow pink as he speechlessly gapes at the knight. Percival chuckles, saying to Guinevere, “Give him about, oh, seven years. He might be more interested then.”

“Ah, I'm not too late.” Merlin's voice interrupts their conversation, and Guinevere turns towards him.

He is accompanied by Sir Leon.

The two knights exchange pleasantries while the final details are tended. Amhar starts crying when Guinevere begins moving towards her horse, and she stops to give him another hug.

“Don't go,” he says with a sniffle.

“I must. My brother will be very unhappy if I don't attend his wedding,” she says.

He nods, understanding, but his tears continue falling even as he steps back and clings to Merlin's hand.

Guinevere hears more sniffling and sees that Gwydre's eyes are also wet. She steps over and hugs him, then Llacheu before stepping back to her horse, now holding back her own tears.

Percival assists her to her saddle, then mounts his own horse. Guinevere looks around the courtyard once more, hoping for a glimpse of golden hair in the sunlight.

She looks down at the boys to see Llacheu very bravely trying to keep his tears from falling. She gives him an understanding smile before nodding at Percival.

“Safe travels, my lady,” Merlin says. His bright blue eyes have a knowing sadness to them, almost like he knows she wishes Arthur were here to see her off.

“Thank you, Lord Merlin,” she replies. As they turn their horses, motion in a high window catches her periphery, and she looks up to see the glimpse of golden hair for which she had been previously searching. She only sees him for a moment, but it was definitely him. _He wouldn't even come down and bid me farewell._

She sighs and begins following Percival out of the courtyard. Just before they reach the gates, something compels her to look back. She turns her head and looks up towards the window. Arthur is there, watching her ride away, his expression cloudy.

xXx

The journey to Caerleon is mostly uneventful and rather quiet. Percival only tried to draw Guinevere into conversation once, but she again politely rebuffed him, telling him while she appreciates his concern, she isn't yet ready.

They talked a bit about Percival's wife's pregnancy, and he tells her he intended to give her the news personally. Of course she understood and congratulated him again.

When they stopped for lunch, a foolish bandit leapt out at them. All Percival had to do was quickly stand up and bring his hand to his sword to give the man second thoughts. When the knight took a menacing step forward, the bandit bolted, along with a companion who had been hiding nearby.

By the time they reach Caerleon, it is late in the day. They spent the afternoon trading stories about the children: Percival about his own, Guinevere about the princes. Percival cannot help thinking that she sounds like she is speaking of her own offspring when she talks of them, but he does not comment on it.

He is also fairly sure that whatever is troubling her has something to do with the king, because every time Arthur's name comes up, she either looks away, gives vague answers, or changes the subject. Sometimes all three in succession.

Guinevere promises Percival she will visit him and his family before she returns to Camelot, and bids him farewell in front of her family home. “Thank you, Percival,” she says. “Both for the escort and for understanding.”

“Of course, Gwen. Any time,” he answers. “I hope you find the answers you need,” he adds, then turns back towards his horse.

She is about to open the doors when they are pulled from the inside, and a moment later, she is enveloped in a hug.

“Elyan,” she greets, laughing and crying a little at the same time.

“I'm so glad you're here,” Elyan replies. “Come. Let's get you settled.” He waves to a servant, who comes forward to collect Guinevere's belongings.

“Shouldn't you be doing something for the wedding?” she asks as they walk to her room.

“Nothing to do right now,” he answers. “Elena knows I wanted to be here to greet you.”

“And where is Elena?”

“At the castle, probably being bathed and groomed and… whatever you ladies do to keep yourselves beautiful,” he says. “What did you do the night before your wedding?”

Guinevere turns to look at her brother. “I paced.”

Elyan blinks. “Oh. Um. Right.” He doesn't really know how to reply to her answer. It took him completely off guard, since being nervous never even occurred to him.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “It has been a long journey.” She sits on her bed, running her hand over the coverlet. “These last few months have been long.”

“Oh, no,” Elyan says, suddenly worried. “Is it awful? Are the princes nightmares? Is King Arthur a tyrant? You know you can stay—”

She holds up her hand. “No, no, nothing like that. The boys are wonderful. Well, they weren't at first,” she chuckles, “but I love them, and I think they love me.”

“And the king?”

She sighs. “Have you eaten supper yet? I should like some food.”

“Gwen…”

“I will tell you what I can,” she promises. “While we eat.”

“All right then,” Elyan replies. “Come on. Sefa will be here in the morning to attend you, but I did not call for her tonight.”

She follows him out and they walk to the hall. “Is she no longer working here?”

“She is expecting,” he says. “She's been ill a lot. The midwife says it's normal, but she has chosen to leave us to remain at home.”

“She doesn't need to come just for me,” Guinevere says. “And it is normal to be sick during the first months,” she softly adds, remembering.

Elyan takes her hand. “She wants to come,” he says. “She sent a message with her nephew when she heard about the wedding, asking if she could possibly be your maidservant during your stay.”

Guinevere smiles and nods.

“Gwen.” He stops just outside the hall. “If seeing her with child is going to trouble you, I can—”

“No, Elyan, it's fine. I promise. Many years have passed.” She knows exactly how old her child would be right now had he survived, but keeps that knowledge locked inside her mind, sharing it with no one. “ _I_ am fine,” she insists. He looks at her. “I am fine with _that_ I mean,” she clarifies.

He nods, knowing she would not lie to him. “All right.”

They head inside and take their seats. Elyan lets her eat a good portion of her dinner before finally asking, “So what is wrong with King Arthur?”

She sets her fork down. “King Arthur is… complicated,” she answers.

“That's it? 'Complicated'? Would you care to elaborate?”

“I don't know if I can. Or should.”

“Oh, now this sounds interesting,” Elyan says, leaning forward.

“Fishwife,” she gently teases. “You knights are worse gossips than a group of old women.” She sets her napkin on the table and adds, “But you will be disappointed to hear that there is nothing worthy of being called 'gossip'. The king and I have simply… had a bit of a troublesome start. That's all.”

“What do you mean?” Elyan asks. “You're being very vague.”

“I'm sorry, but I don't know how to explain it in any way that would make sense to anybody. Even you.” She sighs. “Even me.”

Elyan studies her for a moment. “Has he behaved in an inappropriate manner towards you? Because king or no, if he has…” He makes a show of reaching for his sword.

“No, nothing like that. Trust me, if he had, you would already know because I would have come home immediately.”

“All right,” he nods. “But you said 'troublesome'. Did you argue?”

“Repeatedly,” she says with a chuckle. It's almost funny now. “We have reached an understanding now, but…”

“But…?” he prompts.

“But that's all. I don't know. And that's what's so disturbing.”

“Hmm,” Elyan says, thinking. He has his suspicions, but holds his tongue for now.

“I'm hoping this time away will allow me to settle my mind,” she says.

“I hope so, too,” he replies.


	9. Chapter 9

The wedding was lovely. Elena was beautiful. Elyan was handsome. The feast was excellent.

Everything went perfectly.

Yet Guinevere is still unable to shake off her sadness and confusion.

People noticed her unhappiness, but only those closest to her asked about it. Elena even found a few moments to speak with her new sister-in-law alone during the feast. Guinevere thanked her for her concern, but said, “This is your day to be happy, Elena. Do not worry yourself with my troubles. I am having a lovely time, I promise you.” The new Lady Leodegrance smiled and nodded, but made it clear that she wished to discuss things later.

Later turned out to be the next afternoon, when Elena came breezing into Guinevere's chambers with a basket of dried flowers and some linen, declaring they will make sachets for the wardrobes and talk “like proper sisters”.

Never having had any sisters, Guinevere was at her mercy. Elena asked question after question, unrelenting, and while it was nice to have another woman to talk to, it didn't help ease Guinevere's troubled mind as much as she had hoped it would.

“I don't understand,” Elena finally says, shoving some lavender into the pouch Guinevere had just handed her. “It seems to me that he is smitten with you, and you seem to feel the same way. So what's the difficulty?”

“I don't know that I'd call it 'smitten',” Guinevere replies, making even stitches in the seam of another sachet pouch. “Yes, I am… attracted to him, but…”

“Well, that's not surprising. He _is_ very attractive,” Elena agrees.

“Elena! You are newly married to my _brother!_ ” Guinevere exclaims, but she is laughing.

“Yes, I am, and I have two fully functioning eyes in my head as well,” Elena replies, joining in her mirth. “In any case, you are avoiding the question.”

“It's not that simple,” Guinevere sighs, her laughter fading. “He's the _king._ I tutor his _sons_. It's just… not appropriate.” She looks away. It sounds weak, even to her.

Elena makes a very unladylike noise, blowing air through her lips. “You are a highborn Lady from one of the most prestigious houses in Caerleon. In what way is it inappropriate? It's not as if you are the milkmaid or…” she giggles again, “the stable boy.”

“Elena!” Guinevere exclaims again. Elena has justifiably earned a reputation for being plain-spoken, even blunt, and even though Guinevere has known her for years, it still catches her off guard. It is also one of Elyan's favorite qualities in his new bride.

“Gwen. You like him,” she says, and Guinevere nods. “He likes you.”

“He seems to,” Guinevere replies. “Sometimes. He… well, I told you what happened.”

“You did. And I say he _does_ like you,” Elena declares. “Which leads me back to my original question: What's the difficulty?”

Guinevere sighs and almost pricks her finger with her needle; something she never does. “The problem is I can't… _be_ around him all the time. Not like this. I love the princes, but I might have to give up tutoring them and just stay here.”

“But why?” Elena asks. She knows Guinevere can't see the answer yet, but she wants her to think about it. _Really_ think about it. “Don't answer that right now,” she advises.

xXx

“Do you realize you just yelled at George?” Merlin asks, looking sideways at Arthur.

“What of it?” Arthur asks, frowning at his parchment. “He is my servant and I'll speak to him how I see fit.”

Merlin sighs and leans forward, resting his hands on Arthur's desk and staring at the top of his blonde head until he looks up.

“ _What?_ ” the king snaps.

Merlin raises an eyebrow.

Arthur glares.

“George did nothing wrong.”

“I do not recall naming you the Servants' Champion.”

“You are acting like a child and being sarcastic to avoid the real issue here,” Merlin says, pushing off of the table.

“And what, pray, is the 'real issue', O Wise One?” Arthur asks.

Merlin looks him straight in the eyes. “She's only been gone three days.”

Arthur holds his gaze, but then it falters for just a moment before he replies, “This has nothing to do with her.”

“Doesn't it?”

“This is none of your concern, Merlin.”

“Avoiding again,” Merlin replies. “And it _is_ my concern because, as your Advisor, it is my duty to make sure you are able to think clearly without distractions.”

Arthur drops his head. “She is a distraction when she is here. She's even more of one when she's gone.”

“Only because you allow her to be one,” Merlin replies.

Arthur looks up at him, baffled. “I 'allow' her to be one? I don't 'allow' her to do anything! She seems to do exactly as she pleases, if you ask me.”

Merlin sighs and pulls a chair over. He drops himself into it with the manner of an old, exhausted man, running his hand over his face. “Cabbage head,” he mutters.

“What?”

“You heard me quite well,” Merlin counters. “You. Are a cabbage head.” Arthur blinks, staring at his advisor. Before he can conjure a properly withering retort, Merlin continues. “What I meant is _you_ allow _yourself_ to be distracted by her.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, then closes it.

“You have been doing nothing for two days except lash out at everyone! You've gotten yourself all twisted into knots because you're too… I don't know, either too stupid or too proud to admit that you're halfway in love with the woman!” Merlin exclaims, then exhales heavily, relieved to finally address this issue. He can't help thinking Freya will be proud of him when he tells her.

“It's neither of those things,” Arthur quietly says, and the softness of his tone, the complete lack of fight in it sucks all the wind out of Merlin's mighty sails. “I know exactly how I feel about her.” After a long moment, he adds, “And it's more than halfway.”

“Arthur, why?” Merlin asks, leaning forward. “Why do this to yourself? To her? Surely you don't think she will reject you, because it's pretty ob—”

Arthur looks at him, and Merlin's words die. He can't remember ever seeing his king's – his friend's – expression so bleak before. “What if I lose her, too?”

Merlin is uncharacteristically speechless. He doesn't know how to respond, how to reassure Arthur. Because there is no way. Not to him, not with the life he's had. Instead, he tries a different tactic. “So you're content to pine away? Make yourself miserable? Drag _her_ into your misery?” Arthur looks down, idly picking at a loose nail in the edge of his desk. “I understand your fear, Arthur. Trust me, I do,” Merlin says.

“I know,” Arthur replies. One of the first things that helped form Merlin and Arthur's friendship was the fact that both had lost a parent in infancy. Arthur, his mother; Merlin, his father.

“But you'll definitely lose her if you do nothing.”

Arthur looks at Merlin, his expression showing that he hadn't even considered that possibility. “I…”

“So isn't _any_ time better than none?” Merlin interjects. He takes a deep breath, deciding to put his own neck on the line to make his point. “I… I don't get to see Freya as much as I'd like,” he quietly admits, carefully watching the king as he makes his confession. “She is a servant and I am a lord, and we aren't even supposed to be… spending time together. So we make the most of the moments we manage to steal for ourselves, however few they be.” He looks down and adds, “Even though we know nothing can come of it.”

Arthur doesn't say anything for a long time. So long that it begins to make Merlin very nervous. He stands and looks out the window. “I already knew about you and Freya, Merlin,” he says, still facing away. “It doesn't bother me in the slightest. If you'd like to marry her, I won't stop you. You will still have your job.”

“Oh. Um… thank you, Sire, but I think you perhaps misunderstand my reason for telling you…” Merlin says, his heart pounding.

Arthur turns around and leans against the edge of the window. “No, I do not,” he counters. “I understand completely.”

Merlin nods, but doesn't press, knowing this is likely one of those times where Arthur needs some time alone with his thoughts.

Arthur sighs and pushes himself forward. “We have a Council meeting, do we not?”

Merlin stands. “Yes, but… I didn't know if…”

Arthur stops and looks at Merlin. “If what?”

“Well, you've been yelling at everyone,” Merlin says. “You even lost patience with _Gwydre_ yesterday at training, and he hadn't really done anything wrong.”

“I did apologize to him,” Arthur points out, starting towards the doors again.

Merlin nods, following. “You haven't been eating. You look a mess.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur retorts, disappearing into the corridor.

xXx

_Pleas come hom._

A note, in Amhar's careful but still unsure hand, hidden in Guinevere's bag is her undoing. She found it the next day.

Elyan finds her sitting by the window shortly after she has discovered the note, handkerchief in hand, eyes damp and red.

“Gwen?” he calls and she hastily dabs her eyes. “Gwen, what's wrong?” he asks.

She simply shakes her head and hands him the slip of parchment.

“Is this from one of the princes?” he asks, sitting beside her.

“Amhar. The youngest. He's five,” she answers. “He is so dear and sweet. I miss them, Elyan.”

Elyan sits and returns her note. “Only them?” Elena told him about the conversation she had with Guinevere, and it only confirmed his suspicions about his sister's feelings for the King of Camelot.

She hangs her head. “Him too,” she quietly admits.

He nods. “Queen Annis is willing to offer you a seat on her Council if you need an excuse to stay here,” he says. “That's what I came here to tell you actually, but I can see that you will likely be turning her down.”

“I don't know,” she sighs. “Caerleon doesn't feel like home anymore, Elyan. But I'm not sure Camelot is either.” She looks at Amhar's note again, then says, “At least I _wasn't_ sure until recently.” She rubs the surface of the parchment with her thumb, thinking of the youngest Pendragon with his big brown eyes.

“Guinevere,” Elyan says, and she looks sharply up. He never addresses her by her full name. “All I want is for you to be happy, wherever you are.” She nods and he continues, “So what _exactly_ is making you unhappy in Camelot, so unhappy that everyone has seen it?”

Guinevere ponders her words carefully, not sure how much she should say. She's been thinking a lot about the question Elena left her to mull over, and came up with the answer. The problem is admitting it aloud, even to her brother, who she trusts more than anyone.

“Gwen? Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he gently prods.

“I'm afraid that if I go back there, he won't… _do_ anything. I… I'm fairly sure we both know how we feel about each other… but he seems so…” she trails off, unable to find the right word. She brings her handkerchief to her eyes again, dabbing as new tears start.

“Reticent?” Elyan suggests.

“Yes,” she sighs. “If I return to Camelot and nothing ever happens between us apart from an… acknowledged but unfulfilled attraction… I fear I really _will_ shrivel up and die, just like you said I should not do because Lancelot is gone,” she replies.

Elyan is a bit surprised by her words. He had already concluded his sister had feelings for the king, but did not realize how deep they ran, especially in such a short amount of time. “I wish I had some words of wisdom for you, Guinevere, but I don't know Arthur and cannot claim to know what is in his head or heart. All I can say is: have faith. If it is meant to be, it will happen,” he says. “I'm sorry I can't give you more – or any – reassurance.”

“I'll go back,” she says. “I will stay here a few more days, but then I'll go back, and… try to stop avoiding him,” she chuckles. “I will have faith, as you said, and just see what happens.” She smiles at her brother and adds, “If it becomes unbearable, I'll simply return here.” She looks out the window, over the kingdom. “Or perhaps somewhere else.”

Her last comment takes Elyan by surprise, but he simply squeezes her hand and says, “As long as you are happy and safe, Gwen.”

“Thank you, Elyan,” she replies. “I will see the queen this afternoon and tell her my decision.”

“She said she will hear your answer tomorrow afternoon,” he says. He moves to stand, but settles back down. “Did you say you had been _avoiding_ King Arthur?”

“Yes,” she admits, laughing a little.

“Why on earth would you do that?” he asks.

“Oh, Elyan, let me tell you…”

xXx

“Lady Guinevere is here, my queen,” Sir Percival announces, having been on guard duty outside Queen Annis' private salon when Guinevere arrived.

“Very good,” Annis replies, and Percival steps back into the corridor, leaving Guinevere alone with the queen. “Your brother delivered my message?” she asks, motioning towards a seat.

“Thank you, my lady,” Guinevere says. “Yes, he did.”

“I can simply tell King Arthur that your presence is needed in Caerleon,” she explains. “A seat on my Council would be something he would not dispute. And you are certainly worthy of the position.”

“Thank you again, my lady, but… I think I must decline your offer,” she says.

Annis' eyebrows slightly lift, but she doesn't look too surprised. “Oh?” she asks. Her tone is innocent, which automatically makes Guinevere suspect the queen knows more than she is letting on.

“Yes,” Guinevere answers. “I… I believe my place is in Camelot now, my lady.”

“Hmm,” Annis replies, nodding slowly. “I believe you may be right. I think Camelot does need you more than I do,” she says.

Guinevere regards Annis for a moment, then cautiously asks, “By 'Camelot', you mean…?”

Annis airily waves her hand. “I mean whatever you wish me to mean, my dear,” she answers.

“Yes, my lady,” Guinevere says. Her head is starting to swim. _Can no one say exactly what they mean apart from Elena?_

Annis stands, signaling the end of their short meeting. Guinevere follows suit. Annis holds out her hand, and Guinevere places hers in it, curious. The queen places her other hand over the top of Guinevere's and gives it a motherly pat. “Patience has become an underrated virtue, Gwen,” she says. “And few things worthwhile come easily.” She releases Guinevere's hand.

“Yes. Thank you again, my lady,” Guinevere responds before turning towards the doors, deciding all she wants right now is a hot, fragrant bath and some quiet, with no one giving advice or talking to her in riddles. Nothing but her own thoughts in the silence.

xXx

The next morning, Guinevere emerges from her self-imposed solitude to have breakfast with her brother and sister-in-law.

“I turned down the queen,” she says, sitting. “I think she knew I would, and I think she knows why.”

“Of course she does,” Elena replies. “She knows what's going on inside everyone's heads. It's irritating, but part of what makes her a very good queen.”

“You can say that because you're her daughter,” Elyan chuckles. “And you definitely made the right decision, Gwen. You won't be able to find any of your answers by staying here,” he tells his sister.

A knock on the door interrupts them. “Excuse me my lady, my lord, but… Sir Leon of Camelot is here,” a confused-looking servant says.

Elyan looks surprised, but not nearly as surprised as Guinevere. “Show him in, please, and set a place for him at the table,” she says.

The servant hesitates. “My lady, there is a young lad with him as well.”

 _Llacheu? Arthur would never allow Llacheu to travel without him… would he?_ “Well then, show them both in and set _two_ more places,” she says, recovering.

A maid sets the two places while the servant disappears. He returns a moment later with a dusty looking knight and prince.

Guinevere stands and catches Llacheu as he runs to greet her. “Llacheu!” she exclaims. The young man's hug nearly lifts her off her feet. “Oh!” she gasps, stepping back. “You've grown again.”

Llacheu smiles, his cheeks coloring.

“Oh, forgive me. Prince Llacheu of Camelot, this is my brother, Sir Elyan Leodegrance, First Knight of Caerleon, and Lady Elena Leodegrance.”

Elyan stands and bows to the prince. “An honor, your highness,” he says. Elena curtseys, and Llacheu very respectfully kisses her hand.

“And you of course know Sir Leon,” Guinevere says.

Elyan clasps arms with the other knight, then Leon turns and bows to Elena. “Congratulations on your marriage,” he says.

“Thank you, Sir Leon,” Elena answers. “Please, join us for a bite of breakfast,” she invites, indicating the two additional plates set for them.

“Thank you, my lady,” Llacheu replies. Everyone takes their seats. “We only had some dried beef and an apple this morning, so this is most welcome.”

Guinevere smiles, feeling somewhat proud as she watches the prince. _He's growing into a fine man._

“I imagine a growing lad like yourself has a healthy appetite, my lord,” Elyan says.

Llacheu smiles. “I'm hungry most of the time,” he admits.

They make pleasant but superficial conversation for a short while, mainly about their journey here.

Leon says little. He looks like he has something to say, but isn't sure if this is the time. Guinevere decides to press him.

“Sir Leon, has King Arthur sent you to retrieve me?” she asks, setting her fork down.

Leon's eyes widen. He wasn't expecting this line of questioning here. “Er…”

“You may speak freely,” she assures him.

“I asked to come and bring you home,” Llacheu bluntly replies.

“Oh,” Guinevere says, looking at him. “You did?”

“Yes.”

She turns back to Leon. “So the king is not commanding me to return?”

Leon glances around the table before answering, “No. No commands. The king says if you wish to return, we are to escort you back. If you wish to stay—”

“Please come home, Lady Guinevere,” Llacheu says, cutting Leon off before he can say any more about Guinevere staying. “We miss you. Gwydre and Amhar are sad. Father is… sad. We all want you back where you belong. In Camelot.”

Guinevere smiles at the young man's pause before describing his father's condition as “sad.” She saw Leon's face twitch, too, and knows that “sad” isn't quite an accurate description of the king's current mood. The prince's large brown eyes plead with her, and she wonders if there was an ulterior motive in Llacheu being allowed to accompany Leon on this trip.

“I will need a little time to pack,” she says, and Llacheu's expression transforms until he is smiling wider than she has ever seen.


	10. Chapter 10

The weather was warm and traveling easy and pleasant as Guinevere, Leon, and Llacheu made their way back to Camelot. They got on the road very shortly after breakfast, knowing the journey would take most of the day and they wished to return in time for dinner.

They stop only briefly for lunch, eating cold rations from Elyan and Elena's kitchen while seated on some boulders at the side of the road because they did not want to take the time to build a fire and cook.

Guinevere stands and brushes her hands together. “I'm just going to step into the forest for a moment's privacy,” she says, feeling a bit embarrassed to have to tell them but knowing better than to just disappear.

“Of course, my lady,” Leon says.

She walks carefully, lifting her skirts to keep herself from tripping. _I wish I had some trousers for traveling,_ she absently thinks, wondering if it would be scandalous to see if Elga would sew some for her. Her traveling gown is simple, with a skirt that is not too full, but sometimes she thinks it would be so much easier to wear trousers.

She sees to her needs, then pats her hair, attempting to smooth it. She looks around a little, listening to see if there is a stream nearby, but she hears nothing.

Nothing except footsteps.

Figuring it is likely Llacheu or Leon, she begins to turn. When someone grabs her from behind, the greeting on her lips turns into a rather loud alarmed cry.

“Quiet, you,” a gruff voice barks. Guinevere struggles, but he is much stronger than she, so she makes very little headway. “If you stay still, it won't be as bad,” he adds. “I might even be gentle,” he rumbles, “but probably not.”

Her blood runs cold and she tries to elbow him in what feels like a rather sizable gut. He grabs her elbow and tugs hard. She cries out again, quieter this time, but says nothing. She knows pleading with him would be pointless. She looks towards the road, hoping Leon heard her scream earlier.

“Oh, now, there’s no need to be unfriendly,” the bandit growls into her ear.

Guinevere goes still as a statue, the man’s thick, dirty arm heavy across her chest, his breath acrid in her nose. She tries not to make a face at the overall stench of him.

“You will unhand the lady at once.”

Guinevere’s eyes widen. It is not the voice she was expecting.

The bandit laughs and turns, dragging Guinevere with him. When he sees the prince standing with his sword drawn, he laughs harder. “Who’s this? Your son?” He looks at Guinevere. “Nah, probably not. You take a young lover then?” he sneers, his voice dripping with insinuation. As he laughs at his own joke, Guinevere seizes her opportunity and stomps hard on his foot. He is only wearing soft leather coverings, barely qualifying as shoes, so her riding boots make a profound impact.

“Bitch!” the man spits as she dashes away. He reaches for her hand, trying to grab it and pull her back in.

Llacheu is much quicker and heads him off, jumping between him and Guinevere. “I said, ‘Unhand the lady’,” he repeats, his voice as steady as his sword hand. He waves Guinevere away with the other.

Guinevere steps back, but doesn’t leave him. She will not and cannot do that. He appears to be completely in control, but he is still only a boy. She just begins to wonder where Leon is when the sound of metal clashing on metal reaches her ears from the direction of the road.

“And what are you going to do about it, my Fancy Little Lord?” the bandit taunts, drawing two dirks from his belt, holding one in each hand.

Llacheu swishes his sword, twirling his wrist. It is a preparatory move Guinevere has seen Arthur do almost every time she’s watched him train the knights. It makes the young prince look so much like his father that Guinevere has the sudden, certain realization that Llacheu will win this fight.

The bandit laughs again. “Oh, look at the Fancy Little Lord swingin’ his sword! Is that all you can do, Pup?” He begins to move towards him, knives held menacingly. Llacheu suddenly strikes out and knocks the dirk out of the man’s left hand, sending it into the undergrowth and out of sight. “Why you smug little whelp…” the man growls, and lunges.

The fight is over so quickly Guinevere almost misses it. The bulky thug is no match for Llacheu’s lightning-fast reflexes and nimble feet, and he has the bandit on his knees in seconds, sword pointed at his throat.

“You were saying?” the prince asks.

 _He is_ so _his father’s son._ Guinevere has to bite back an unexpected smile.

The bandit lets loose with a string of curses, punctuated occasionally with things like, “Child” and “Thinks he’s better than me”, finally concluding again with “Fancy Little Lord”.

Llacheu presses the tip of his sword forward just enough to get the man to stop talking. “I’ll have you know I am not merely a lord,” he says. “I am Prince Llacheu, heir to the throne of Camelot, and I _will_ remember your face if you are ever foolish enough to set foot inside my kingdom.”

“Lady Guinevere! Prince Llacheu!” Leon appears then, only slightly out of breath. “Oh. Well done, my lord.”

The bandit glowers, unrepentant and bitter, looking daggers at the prince.

“What shall we do with him?” Llacheu asks.

“I tied his three companions to a tree up there,” Leon indicates with his head. “He can join them.”

“Three?” Guinevere says, shocked and impressed. “You felled three men on your own?”

Leon shrugs lightly. “It is what I am trained to do, my lady,” he simply says. He grabs the bandit by the back of his vest and hauls him to his feet before noticing the dirt on Guinevere’s dress. “Did he harm you in any way, my lady?” he asks, his face growing grave.

Guinevere can see his free hand twitching and knows the bandit will be dead if she were to say yes. The realization that she could lie and have this man killed is sobering. “No. He tried, but Prince Llacheu came to my rescue at just the right moment,” she says, smiling at the boy.

“You’re fortunate she’s an honest and kindhearted Lady,” Leon snarls at the man, who merely grunts in surprise and annoyance as he is hauled up the hill. Leon is slender, but very tall and surprisingly strong. He has no trouble handling the hefty bandit.

“Thank you, Llacheu,” Guinevere says, taking the prince’s offered arm. They begin picking their way back to the road.

“You’re welcome, Lady Guinevere. It _is_ my duty as prince to protect my people,” he answers. “Also, I got _really_ angry when I got there and saw him doing… whatever it was he had planned to do to you.”

She stops, struck by his words. His unexpected protectiveness of her further solidifies the growing bond between them, and she pulls him into a hug. “You are growing into a very fine young man,” she says, blinking away the tears in her eyes. “Your father will be so proud of you when you tell him what you did today.”

“Lady Guinevere?” he quietly asks, pulling away.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Don't tell anyone, but… I _was_ scared,” he admits.

She smiles, understanding. “There is no shame in being frightened,” she says, taking his arm again. They start walking again. “It is a sign of wisdom,” she adds. “Only fools disregard danger.”

“She's right,” Leon says, having heard her last statements. “You were very brave, my lord.”

“Thank you, Sir Leon,” Llacheu says.

Guinevere notices that while he wasn't shaking earlier, he is trembling a bit now. She takes his hand and holds it between both of hers for a moment. “Come. Let's go home.”

xXx

They return later than they originally had hoped, but not too much so. The bandits set them back, and they also stopped and spoke with some patrolling knights they encountered to report the attack and tell them where the men were tied up.

They were met by the stablemaster in the courtyard, but not Arthur.

 _It's just as well,_ Guinevere decides, as she very likely looks terrible and smells like horse. She can still smell the odor of the bandit who assaulted her, but isn't sure if his stink is clinging to her clothes or if it is her imagination.

In any case, while she is disappointed not to see Arthur, she is a little glad at the same time.

Freya meets her halfway to her rooms, overjoyed to see her mistress again. “My lady, what happened?” she immediately asks. “Your dress is torn!”

“Is it?” Guinevere looks down to where Freya is pointing and sees that her skirt does have a tear in it. She sighs. “There were bandits,” she explains. “I wasn't injured.”

“Oh, thank God,” Freya replies. “I'll have a bath brought up immediately.”

They enter Guinevere's rooms. A page sets her baggage down, and Freya sends him to see to Guinevere's bath water.

“Freya, you are wonderful,” Guinevere says just as a knock sounds at her door. She opens it to find Gwydre and Amhar standing there. “Oh!” Guinevere exclaims, surprised and delighted to see them. They both hug her at the same time, one on each side, and once again, she finds tears coming to her eyes.

“We missed you, Lady Guinevere,” they both say.

“I missed you, too,” she replies. “Both of you. So much.”

“Did you get my note?” Amhar asks, looking up at her.

She bends down and says, “Yes, I did. Thank you.” She hugs him and adds, “We need to work on your spelling though.”

“Will we have classes tomorrow?” Gwydre asks.

“I think so,” she answers. The princes' lessons have been the farthest thing from her mind, but she will come up with something for tomorrow, unable to deny the hopeful expression on Gwydre's face.

“Good,” he replies. “Come on, Amhar. You need to go to bed and Lady Guinevere is probably hungry.” He takes his brother's hand and begins leading him away. He turns back and says. “We're glad you're back. Father will be happy again.”

Guinevere's mouth opens, but no words find their way out. She simply watches the boys walk down the corridor to Amhar's nursery.

xXx

Guinevere feels like herself again after her bath. She sent Freya away for a while, wishing for some time alone. She should be hungry, but doesn't really feel like eating yet. She goes to the window and looks out over the courtyard, watching the few people mill about, doing their final duties for the evening.

“I missed you.”

The words are softly spoken and come from the direction of Guinevere's doors, which had been left open. She wheels around, caught completely off guard. “Sire,” she softly exclaims. She wasn't expecting to see him tonight.

He steps inside, closing the doors behind him. “Arthur,” he gently corrects as he walks towards her.

She nods and looks down, but doesn't say anything, trying to gather her thoughts as he walks towards her. He is being completely open with her and she has had no time to prepare for this type of reunion. He stops in front of her, and she finds her voice. “I missed you, too,” she softly replies.

“Amhar seemed to be under the impression you might not return,” he says, wishing she would look up at him.

She smiles, but it doesn't last. “I gave it a thought,” she admits.

His hand slowly comes up, delicately lifting her chin with his index finger. “Why?” he asks.

She tries not to look into his eyes, but cannot stop herself. Especially because he's looking at her in a way she's never seen before. His expression is honest and tender, almost vulnerable. It's very new and very attractive.

“I… I thought I was unhappy here,” she answers. “I thought I would be able to think with a clearer head in familiar surroundings and… and decide if I was happier in Caerleon.”

“Were you?” he asks.

She blinks. “Was I able to think or was I happier in Caerleon?” she asks, not sure which he wishes to know.

He smiles. “Both.”

She takes a step back, _unable_ to think with him so close. “It was nice to be home,” she starts, turning away to face the window once again. “My rooms were just as I had left them. The surroundings were familiar, the faces dear.” She sighs. “But… it was no longer home. The longer I was there, the more my mind would stray back to here. _These_ rooms.” She extends her arms, then drops them. “This castle. The princes.”

“Me?” Arthur's voice is quiet, a small whisper so full of hope that it could almost be called “desperate”.

Guinevere can't bring herself to speak, afraid her voice might fail her if she tries. Her heart is pounding and her throat feels tight. She nods once, closing her eyes.

She hears his soft footsteps behind her, coming closer again, and she cannot will her feet to move. She keeps her eyes closed and clenches her hands into her skirts.

A moment later, she feels his hand, warm and strong, closing over one of hers, delicately freeing it from its grip on her dress. He gently tugs it until she turns back to face him again. “Guinevere.”

She wobbles just slightly, but his soft yet stable hold on her hand supports her. Everything she needed to know was contained in that one word. She risks a look up at him, then drops her gaze again. “When you didn't come down to see me off, I thought…”

“You thought I was angry with you?” he asks. “Didn't care?” His thumb is slowly, softly rubbing circles on the back of her hand, his touch remarkably tender for a man known to be a killing machine.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Well, no. I… I was fairly sure you did… _do…_ but I thought that's all it would be. Just…” She pauses, unsure if she can bring herself to say the words.

“What?” he softly presses, again wishing she would look up at him. He can feel her trembling, can smell the sweet, flowery scent coming from her hair. He wants to bury his nose in the dark mahogany curls, wants to wrap his arms around her and never let go.

And now he's finally brave enough, finally ready to act on it. But he needs to know that she is also ready. So he chooses to let her guide where things will go between them.

She takes a deep breath. “I was afraid you would never…” Her words die as she once more loses her nerve to speak her thoughts.

He lifts her hand and kisses it. It is not the dry, chaste brush of lips he offered last time. This time he lingers, his lips warm and soft on her skin. “Never do this?” he whispers, his lips still dangerously close to her skin. “Never act on this… undeniable attraction we have for one another?”

“Yes.” Her voice is shaky and so are her knees.

“I was afraid,” he says, turning her hand to kiss the inside of her wrist. Her skin is unbelievably soft and fragrant. “Afraid of letting myself be happy for fear I'd eventually lose you, too.”

She finally looks at him. “Oh, Arthur…”

He brings her hand to his chest, resting it over his heart, letting her feel how her proximity makes his heart race. “But I was so miserable while you were away that I realized I would be a fool to deny myself even one moment of… whatever time I am allowed with you.”

Overwhelmed, Guinevere feels a tear slip out and roll down her cheek and she takes a shaky breath. “I'm scared, too, Arthur,” she admits. “But I was also miserable while I was away. I thought perhaps I was unhappy here, but when I got _there,_ I realized I wasn't.” Her free hand gingerly lands on his biceps, and she feels his muscles jump in reaction to her touch.

His reaches up to brush away her tear, really wanting to pull her into his arms, remembering how good she felt there when they danced. “It sounds very confusing,” he says.

She nods, her eyes fixed on his neck. “People noticed my mood and assumed it was because my life here was terrible. Elyan and Elena helped me figure out the true cause of my sadness.” Her eyes flick up to his. “They helped me realize I was miserable because I _wasn't_ here. Because I was… denying how I felt. Then later, when I found the note Amhar had snuck into my bag, I knew I had to come back to Camelot.”

“To me,” he adds.

Her eyes widen slightly and she has to stop the sudden laugh that threatens to escape. “You've certainly gotten over your fear, haven't you?” she asks, her lips curling into a slight smile.

“Almost,” he answers, his gaze dropping to her lips for one small but very telling moment.

Guinevere softly gasps, then bites her lower lip. It only draws his eyes back down to them, and she releases it as soon as she notices.

Arthur lifts her hand and kisses it once again. “I… I don't want you to think me a cad,” he says, his voice a bit low and husky. “But I really want to kiss you, Guinevere.” When she doesn't answer, he nods and looks down. “It's too soon. I've overwhelmed you. I'm s—”

“I want you to kiss me, Arthur,” she answers. “It's just that… no one has kissed me in more than two years,” she whispers.

He releases her hand to slowly place his arm around her waist. “It has been slightly over three years for me,” he replies. “I hope we remember how,” he adds, a slight smile curling his lips.

Guinevere returns his smile, happy but not surprised to learn that Arthur hadn’t used his status as King to have his “physical needs” met by willing (or unwilling) young maids or paid concubines.

He caresses her cheek once before dropping his head.

Her eyes drift closed as his lips touch hers, warm and yielding. They fit perfectly together, and she melts into him, her hands moving up to his shoulders. His arms slide, hands splaying on her back as he leans into her.

The kiss is soft and filled with promise, and it is over much too soon. Arthur pulls away before giving in to the urge to part her lips with his tongue and thoroughly lose himself.

“It seems we do remember,” Guinevere softly exhales, looking up at him. She's a bit surprised she is able to form a coherent sentence, especially because he is still loosely holding her in his arms.

Arthur nods, wanting to kiss her again, but holding back. “Have dinner with me,” he says. “Please?” he amends, clumsily attempting to turn the command into a request.

“Yes,” Guinevere answers with a smile.

“I will have George bring dinner for two to my chambers then,” he says. She hesitates, unsure if that’s appropriate. “If you’d rather dine with me in the hall, we can eat there,” he immediately adds, seeing her expression. He drops his hands and takes a small step back. “I… I simply wish for privacy. So we can speak freely to one another.”

“I know I can trust you, Arthur,” she says, reaching out to touch his arm. “It wasn’t that which caused my hesitation.”

“Always the proper Lady,” he answers, understanding. He lifts her hand from his arm and kisses it. “I do not think we need to trouble ourselves with chaperones. You and I are too old to be concerned with traditional rules of courtship,” he says with a chuckle, turning her hand and kissing her palm. “I don’t think they apply the second time around anyway.”

She laughs then, and somewhat haughtily says, “Speak for yourself, my lord, but _I_ am not old.”

“Oh, I know,” he ruefully answers, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I most certainly know that,” he echoes, leading her from her chambers to his.

xXx

As they talk and dine together, Guinevere realizes things are no longer awkward at all. Conversation flows easily between them, and they laugh together much more than she would have expected.

He asks about the bandits they encountered on their way home, and Guinevere gives him her version of the events, including the parts that happened before Llacheu arrived. Arthur was clearly angered by the attack, and though it was difficult to hear about it a second time, he truly wanted to hear her account. He told her how proud he was of his firstborn, and that it warmed his heart to hear how Llacheu had done such an excellent job defending her. “It shows me how highly he regards you, Guinevere, and it pleases me a great deal that he was able to protect you when I, regrettably, could not.”

She gets the distinct impression that had Arthur been there, the bandit would be dead.

Not wishing for him to dwell on it, she changes the subject, telling him about the wedding and the offer from Queen Annis. He was pleased that her family and queen were prepared to go to such lengths to ensure her happiness.

Guinevere also relays Annis' curious comments about Camelot needing her more than Caerleon. “I think she suspects more than she let on,” she says. “About us, I mean.” She sets her napkin beside her plate. “The more I think back to my visit to Caerleon, the more I get the feeling no one will be surprised to learn of this turn of events.” She looks over at him and grins somewhat sheepishly.

He chuckles, pushing his chair back. “Come,” he stands and offers his hand. “Join me by the fire.”

She takes his hand and stands. He holds her hand instead of placing it in the crook of his arm and leads her to a pair of upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace.

He places a few more logs on the fire before sitting. George knocks and Arthur bids him enter, allowing the servant to clear the dinner dishes while they continue talking.

“I was expecting you to be old,” Arthur suddenly says, hearkening back to the comments he made earlier when they left Guinevere’s chambers.

“I beg your pardon?” she asks, laughing.

“Annis merely told me you were a widow. I was expecting someone closer to her age than mine,” he explains. “Then when you appeared, looking…” he trails off, and his eyes get a faraway look in them for a moment before he continues, “beautiful. You were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, striding confidently towards me…” He focuses on her face again. “You were wearing a purple dress, and your hair was up.”

She smiles and looks down, touched and impressed that he remembers so many details. Suddenly, everything makes a little more sense. “You panicked,” she quietly remarks.

“Something like that,” he chuckles. “I do not often react well to surprises,” he explains.

“That is understandable. If a king is surprised, he generally winds up dead,” she comments, understanding.

“Quite,” he agrees with a nod, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks at his hands while he speaks. “So I was angry, but not with you. You… wound up receiving my anger and bewilderment, and I am sorry for it, but I was truly annoyed with Annis, wondering what game she was playing at. And I was surprised at my immediate attraction to you, which…”

“Scared you,” she supplies, remembering what he had said earlier.

“Yes.” He leans back. “I came back here and wrote a message to Annis, accusing her of all manner of things. Lying. Trickery.” He pauses. “Matchmaking.” Guinevere’s eyes widen and he quickly adds, “I never sent the letter. I _wrote_ it but knew better than to immediately send it.”

“Oh, good,” she sighs, wondering if Annis would have told her had she received such a letter.

He nods. “I have learned over the years that I sometimes have a tendency to… act rashly,” he says, a slightly amused expression on his face.

“No!” she gasps in mock disbelief.

He laughs now, nodding. “I have _also_ learned that it is important to wait until I have calmed down and am able to think clearly before _completing_ said action.” He looks away and adds, “Most of the time.”

“The afternoon in the throne room?” she gently asks.

“Yes. That was not one of my finer moments,” he agrees, reaching for her hand. “Nor was the day after the feast.”

“Arthur,” she says, twining her fingers with his. “I have already forgiven you for both of those. Please forgive yourself.”

He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Guinevere. I do try to be a better king – and man – than my father was. Sometimes I fail, and I would ask that you be patient with me.”

“Of course, Arthur,” she answers, amazed at how her life has suddenly turned in a few short hours. “As long as you can forgive me for my occasional lapses in being able to control my words,” she replies, knowing she has spoken out of turn to him more than once.

“My dear Guinevere,” he says, lifting their joined hands to his lips, “I look forward to being on the receiving end of your… candor.”

“Truly?” she asks, surprised.

“I have great respect for people who have the courage to speak up for what they feel is right, even if they know their words will not be met favorably,” he answers, pondering her slender fingers.

She looks at him, nodding thoughtfully. “You never did seem to be the type of king – or man – who wished to be surrounded by sycophants,” she says, thinking of his relationship with Merlin.

“If everyone always agrees with me, how am I to know if it is because I am truly right or if it is because I am merely their king?” he replies. “I want people to respect me enough to _be_ honest with me just as I respect people who _are_ honest with me.”

“That is a noble, if sadly unusual, quality in a monarch,” she replies. “More kings and queens should think this way.” As soon as the words are out, she remembers Camelot's reputation for being “barbaric” or even “primitive”. _Oh, how wrong they all are._

“I agree, and that might be why I tend to keep to myself,” he replies, almost as though he has read her thoughts. “Besides, Merlin cannot have _all_ the fun.” He looks at her, a slight smile on his face. “Your bold candor with me… it only made you _more_ attractive, if I am to be perfectly honest. You are not afraid to speak up when you feel something is wrong. It is a very good quality to have. A very _noble_ quality.” He kisses her hand again, mainly because he cannot reach her lips. “A quality befitting a queen,” he murmurs against her skin.

She gasps, surprised at his directness. She was fairly certain of his intentions, but did not expect him to address them so quickly. “Arthur,” she whispers.

He looks at her, his blue eyes boring into hers. “I know where my heart lies. I think you know where yours does as well. As I said, we are too… _mature_ to play games. Too experienced in life to pretend this isn't what it is, Guinevere,” he says, carefully avoiding using the word “old” again.

Guinevere wordlessly nods, wondering if he can hear her heart attempting to pound its way out of her chest.

“You knew what my intentions were hours ago,” he softly intones. “I am not formally asking you now, but I want you to know that I am not merely toying with your emotions.”

“I know you wouldn't do that,” she replies.

“Not to you.”

“Not to anyone. I… I understand you, Arthur. I truly do,” she says, her eyes widening when he slides down from his chair, dropping to his knees right in front of her.

“I know,” he replies. “It's one of the many reasons why I may already be in love with you, Guinevere.” He takes both of her hands and kisses them, holding them to his heart. “In fact, I am certain I am,” he adds, his voice nearly a whisper.

His words topple whatever was yet remaining of the wall guarding Guinevere’s feelings, and she frees one hand to stroke his cheek. He angles his face into her touch, his eyes closing, and she cannot stop herself from leaning forward and kissing him.

Arthur is only slightly surprised, his eyes opening wide for a split second before drifting closed once more. His free hand bunches her skirts to keep it from roaming inappropriately while the other still holds hers.

Then she moves, sliding her fingers into his hair, and he is undone. He presses forward, moving to lightly suck at her lower lip, coaxing them apart. A small noise escapes her throat as she opens her mouth under his, her tongue finding his immediately.

He surrenders, his hands now on her waist again, pulling her towards him until he is nestled in her skirts, not even feeling the floor beneath his knees.

They pull away from one another at the same time, both seeming to sense what might happen if they allowed themselves to continue.

Guinevere looks into his eyes, meeting his glazed expression with her own. “I love you, too, Arthur,” she whispers.

“You do?” he replies, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Yes,” she answers, smiling at how sweet and hopeful he looks right now. She imagines he looks very much like the promising young prince he once was. _Like his sons._

He briefly, joyously kisses her once more.

xXx

Arthur walks Guinevere back to her rooms a short time later. He would have stayed up talking with her all night, but she mentioned Gwydre wishing to have class the next day, and he wanted her to get enough sleep.

They stand outside her doors, neither of them really wanting to say goodnight. He takes both of her hands in his. “Despite my prior comments about eschewing traditional rules of courtship, I plan on writing to your brother in the morning to ask for his blessing,” he tells her.

Arthur's thoughtfulness warms her heart. “I think he would appreciate the gesture, even though he could hardly say 'No' to a king,” she replies.

“From what you've told me, I daresay I would be in more danger from him if I decided _not_ to court you,” he chuckles.

She angles her head to the side. “Possibly,” she evasively answers, a mysterious smile on her face.

“And it would be well within his rights to refuse, king or no,” he says. “I am not a tyrant.”

She smiles. “I know that. And if he thought you were mistreating me in any way, he would. In fact, he nearly drew his sword at the dinner table one evening because he thought there was a possibility you had behaved inappropriately towards me.”

His eyebrows lift. He looks rather impressed. “Is that so?” She nods. “Good. I am glad to hear it.”

Guinevere suddenly lets out a short snort of a laugh. “I should tell him about Lord Agravaine at the feast,” she says, shaking her head.

Arthur's expression clouds. “Did he… did he try something at the feast?” he asks, his tone quite grave.

“Only a bit,” she admits. “He merely grabbed my hand before Queen Morgana came to my rescue.” She tells him what happened, and his expression further darkens until she reaches out and touches his cheek. “It's all right, Arthur. He won't bother me again.”

He looks at her, face still troubled. “How do you know that?” he asks.

She strokes his cheek. “Because you will not allow it,” she simply answers, and his expression clears, transforming into something tender and sweet as he gazes down at her.

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close as he lowers his head towards hers. He boldly kisses her, there in the corridor outside her rooms, not caring one bit if anyone should pass by.

“Goodnight, Guinevere,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against hers.

She pecks his lips once more and replies, “Goodnight, Arthur,” before reluctantly extracting herself from his embrace and slipping into her rooms.


	11. Chapter 11

One year later

 

Arthur walks into the royal chambers, eyes darting about. “Guinevere?”

“I'm here,” she calls, her voice floating from behind a screen near one of the windows. “We both are.”

He quickly makes his way over. “She's _still_ eating?” he asks. “The ceremony is going to start soon!”

“You know she has always been a slow eater,” she answers, looking up from the tiny bundle in her arms. “And it's not like they can start the princess' blessing ceremony _without_ the princess.”

He purses his lips, knowing she is right. He just hates being late, even though he is king, even to his own events. He exhales, blowing out a long breath. “I know.”

“Arthur,” she gently says, smiling up at him. “The people will understand. They already love her.”

He smiles down at his daughter. His _daughter._ So much has happened in a year. He and Guinevere married a month after her return to Camelot, to no one's surprise. Queen Annis made the journey, and came very close to admitting she had hoped that he and Guinevere would find their way together.

Perhaps the most surprising thing was that Guinevere became pregnant almost immediately. The midwife even said it was possible that she could have conceived on their wedding night, which made Guinevere blush slightly as she remembered their post-nuptial activities. When she told Arthur that bit of information, he merely grinned and said, “Well, we certainly made enough attempts that night.”

Because of the new queen's age and history, the midwife kept her on heavy restrictions throughout her pregnancy. It was a very stressful time for both Arthur and Guinevere. The new court physician, a strange but brilliant man called Alator, would look in on her from time to time, but never interfered with the midwife's responsibilities. The princes would visit regularly as well, telling their mother (they had a meeting and decided they wished to call Guinevere “Mother”, if she was agreeable. She was.) about their training sessions and lessons with their new tutor.

When princess Eleanor Ygraine was finally born, healthy and without complications, the entire castle seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

“There now,” Guinevere softly says, lifting the baby to her shoulder.

“I'll take her,” Arthur offers, reaching for his daughter and the cloth to put on his shoulder. He has already attended a Council meeting with a white splotch down the back of his shoulder, he does not wish to attend his daughter's blessing ceremony with one.

“Thank you,” Guinevere answers, fixing her garments so she is covered and presentable. Her new maid hurries over to assist, making certain her mistress looks perfect.

“Merlin and Freya will be waiting just outside the doors,” he says, patting Eleanor's back. “They will have us announced after they enter.”

“Yes, I remember,” Guinevere answers. Merlin married Freya a few months prior, and Freya is now Guinevere's lady in waiting. “She needs changing first.”

Arthur sniffs. “Indeed. I thought I smelled something,” he chuckles. The princess lets out a very undignified burp and he laughs more. “Come on, you,” he says to her as he takes her to change. “We can't have you being a stinky princess or the people might start calling you 'Princess Smellanor',” he says, laughing at his own joke.

“Arthur! That's terrible!” Guinevere says, but she cannot help laughing with him. “And don't you dare let the boys hear you say that!”

“They would never,” he replies. “They love her more than anyone. Well, except for you and me.” He finishes changing Eleanor, and tells her, “Yes, because no one loves you more than we do,” before kissing her plump cheek.

“Are you ready?” Guinevere asks, walking over.

“Are you?” Arthur counters, raising an eyebrow.

“Do I not look ready?”

He lets his eyes wander over her. “You look beautiful, my love.”

“Thank you,” she replies, looping her hand into the elbow of his unoccupied arm.

They are just about to step out, but then Arthur stops.

“Arthur?” Guinevere asks, looking up at him.

He bends down and kisses her lips, lingering over them in a way that suggests he has all the time in the world. “Do you remember when I said I hoped Mithian was not the great love of my life?”

She smiles and nods. “Of course I do.”

“I can do more than hope now. I know she definitely was not.” He kisses her again. “It's you, Guinevere. It has always been you.”

“We just had to find each other,” she agrees, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“I'm so glad we did,” he replies, kissing the top of her head before they walk out of their chambers and down to introduce their daughter to Camelot.


End file.
